


To Change a Heart

by sirkay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dumbledore made bad choices, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Experimental Magic, Friendship, Groundhog Day, Horcrux Hunting, House elves being cool, Kissing, Legilimency, M/M, Magical Theory, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Open communication wins wars, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Redemption, Room of Requirement, Slow Burn, Teamwork, Weddings, alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 120,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirkay/pseuds/sirkay
Summary: Draco fails to kill Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower, but when he wakes up the next morning, he's back in his bed at Hogwarts. He's reliving the same day over and over, and to escape he might need help from unlikely places.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood & Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks/Original Female Character(s), Remus Lupin/Kingsley Shacklebolt
Comments: 303
Kudos: 354





	1. Prologue: The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first fic I have ever written. Two years ago my girlfriend dared me to write an angsty Drarry Groundhog's Day AU, and it turned into...this. I wanted to write something about Draco learning to do the right things for the right reasons, and how the war might have been different if Dumbledore hadn't kept so many SECRETS!
> 
> I have written the whole thing, but I will be posting chapter by chapter. It should update pretty quickly.
> 
> Huge thanks to relativius for giving me this idea, being my first reader, and giving so many wonderful edits <3 This literally would not exist without you!!

“I haven’t got any options!” Draco cried. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!”

None of this was as he had planned it. When Draco had first burst out onto the top of the Astronomy tower, his mind had urged, _Now, now!_, triumph coursing like adrenaline through his limbs. But Dumbledore began speaking to him, and Draco found himself responding, waiting. _Now or never_, he had thought. _Do it now or never_.

As the golden rush of his success had faded, something icy crept through his veins, weighing him down. He talked and talked, reminding himself as much as telling Dumbledore all he had done to get here. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t a coward. But now Dumbledore’s words were washing over Draco, filtering slowly into his mind, like Draco was underwater. _Now or never._ A crossroads. The forked tongue of a snake. Two paths spread before him— one gleaming in the light of the Dark Mark cast above the school, the other paved with the calm words Dumbledore, a dead man, continued to speak. It seemed to Draco that this was the moment everything hinged on.

_Only feet away, petrified and invisible, Harry’s mind whirled. What spell to use? Expelliarmus? Stupefy? He strained against his own frozen limbs, willed his body to move, but Dumbledore’s spell held. He couldn’t stop Malfoy, couldn’t do anything to prevent the horror unfolding right before him. Malfoy’s wand hand was trembling, his face contorted with something like rage or agony. Dumbledore was sliding slowly down the rampart, weak and pale. There was nothing Harry could do. But he had to be ready._

Dumbledore seemed to think Draco had reached an uncrossable line. But Draco had reached a thousand crossroads, made a thousand choices, that led him here. With terrifying clarity he saw that no matter what choice he made, he would be taken to Voldemort tonight. If he killed Dumbledore, he would be honored. If he failed, he would be killed. No— not killed. He knew of Snape’s Unbreakable Vow, knew of his mother’s protections. Some part of him had known all along, even when he cried in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, that the people who cared for him would not truly let him die. If he failed, Snape would complete the deed and defend him. That knowledge had hurt his pride, but in the end he had been banking on it all along. His wand hand twitched. Dumbledore was still talking, bathed in the sickly green glow of the Dark Mark. But time seemed to have slowed.

“It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”

_Under his cloak, Harry struggled fruitlessly against Dumbledore’s spell. What curse would he use against Malfoy when he was free? Something vicious. Sectumsempra floated into his mind, but he banished it. Not that. Malfoy’s wand had lowered a fraction. Were those tears shimmering in his eyes? Could Dumbledore’s gentle coaxing be having an actual effect? The thought made Harry sick. He wanted to hurt Malfoy, wanted to throw off the cloak and curse him into oblivion. I was right, he thought. I was right, all along, and no one believed me. But when Harry glanced at Dumbledore’s face, his resolve wavered. The headmaster’s face looked sunken and wan, the wrinkles deeper than ever, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion. And yet it wore a familiar expression, one Harry had often seen directed at himself. Compassion. Only now, it was directed at Malfoy. A sudden thought occurred to Harry, a spell he had seen only once, scrawled in the margins of his potions textbook, a spell he had never used…_

Draco’s parents had always liked to tell him about the night that he woke up crying and wouldn’t stop. It was Halloween, and Draco was a year old, and a few hours later they learned of the Dark Lord’s defeat. They never quite told him the moral of the story, but it was as clear as everything else that lurked between the lines of the things his parents said. Draco was born to be one of them. A Death Eater. Of course, Lucius and Narcissa must have felt safe encouraging him. They were high in the Dark Lord’s favor before his defeat and believed, in any case, that there was no chance of Voldemort turning up at their doorstep to collect on their empty promises— or reap what they had sown.

They made a bully, that was all. Draco could admit it now as he stood, trembling and staring death in its glowing green eyes. All of Moaning Myrtle’s solicitousness and scolding (“Most people have friends to talk to, you know...You really shouldn’t taunt that first year, don’t you remember how I died?”) finally made sense— and it opened a bottomless pit in his stomach. He was at a crossroads, but he had been here before. When he was eleven and he felt the strange twist in his stomach at the sight of that scrawny, black-haired boy in Madam Malkins and he decided, later, at Hogwarts, to impress him by taunting Weasley. When he first looked into the scowling face of Hermione Granger and called her a Mudblood. When he pushed his mother aside, knelt before Voldemort, and haughtily accepted his task.

The fire of purpose was gone. It had been reduced to coals months ago, stuttering each time his plan began to fail, each time he was forced to think about the consequences. Now it was fully extinct, a thin plume of regret twisting up in his leaden body. All he really wanted was to go back.

_Harry knew that if he got the chance to move, he needed the element of surprise. He might have only one chance at a spell, and it had to be the right one. Looking at Malfoy’s pale, pointed face made his blood boil. But there was Dumbledore, calm and regal as ever, even as he slid another inch down the railing, his body weakened by poison. He knew what Dumbledore would do in his place. Besides, the Dark Mark already hovered over the school. There were Death Eaters in the castle. Harry needed not only to stop Draco from what he was about to do, but to reverse what he had done. _Please don’t let it be one of my friends,_ Harry thought. _Not Ron, not Hermione, not Luna, not Neville. Not Ginny._ Not anyone who had offered to fight for him._

Draco knew there was no choice. He would kill for Voldemort, or die at his hand, or return to his side a pitiful child, rescued by his mother. His mother, who would be at Voldemort’s mercy if Draco failed. His mother, who he realized through the fog of his thoughts Dumbledore was promising to protect. His father, too, rescued from Azkaban, hidden, saved. All of the fight left his body. His wand hand faltered.

Something careened into Draco from behind, and he stumbled forward as four hooded figures crowded onto the tower. He recognized the squat Carrows at once, and then his eyes fell on the enormous man behind them, yellowing teeth bared in a leer. _No._

Dumbledore, absurdly, greeted the Carrows like old friends. Then—

“Is that you, Fenrir?”

Draco was barely aware of their conversation, until he heard his own name.

“And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live.”

“I didn’t,” Draco breathed. He couldn’t move. He could barely bring himself to look at Greyback, at the brown smudge near the werewolf’s lips. Dirt? Dried blood? Had Greyback already been feasting tonight? Here, at Hogwarts? “I didn’t know he was going to come—”

They were talking, talking, and then urging him on, forcing his hand. Draco lifted his wand, their jeers echoing in his head. There was shouting from the staircase. Draco’s heart leapt— would it be the Order? Snape?

“I’ll do it,” Fenrir snarled, but Yaxley blasted him aside, insisting that it had to be Draco. Footsteps rang out on the stairs, and Severus Snape swept out onto the tower. Draco’s heart leapt into his mouth. He met his professor’s cold, dark eyes, and saw instant understanding there. _I’ve failed. You were right._ But he was too drained to feel more than an echo of shame. What he really felt was relief. Snape was going to protect him.

“Severus…” Dumbledore said, and for the first time Draco heard weakness in his voice. Was the headmaster even standing fully upright? “Please.”

Snape strode forward, wand arm raised. His face was a marble mask. “_Avada Kedavra._”

_In a hideous, familiar flash of green, Dumbledore toppled over the edge of the Astronomy Tower. Life surged through Harry’s limbs. He crouched, legs tingling, but still incapable of movement. It couldn’t be real. _

_Chaos erupted on the tower. Death Eaters scattered, Snape grabbed Draco’s arm and ran for the stairs. Harry’s body leapt into motion. _I can’t let him escape._ He didn’t know why, couldn’t have put it into words, but he didn’t need words. His mind was a rush of rage. He couldn’t let Snape get away. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. He just needed to get Snape back, bring it all back to the way it had been. It had to be undone. _

_His feet thundered on the stairs. The dark Entrance Hall was filled with bodies, moving and still, and with lights ricocheting off the walls. People shouted spells and screamed incoherent things. Harry had eyes only for the flash of blonde that was Malfoy escaping. Escaping with Snape. He burst out onto the grounds, his trainers slipping on the dewy grass. Breath tore out of his lungs, sharply cold, but his face was hot and wet. It had to be undone. _

_Later, he would remember shouting at Snape, and Snape responding with cold disdain. He would remember his spells batted away like the fists of a child. They were nearing the gates, nearing the end of Harry’s pursuit. He couldn’t get to Snape, not when Snape anticipated his every movement and word. Harry’s eyes fell on Malfoy. The Slytherin stared back at Harry— no, past Harry, to the castle. Dazed. Before Snape had a chance to grasp his intention, Harry threw a spell at Malfoy’s retreating back. _

_“_Iterum Vivere!_” _

_A silver beam of light shot from Harry’s wand and hit Malfoy squarely in the back. He stumbled, and Snape hauled him upright. Harry caught a glimpse of Snape’s face; the disdain had vanished, replaced with something hollow. Something afraid._


	2. Day One

All Draco would remember of what happened after Potter’s spell hit him were flashes. Snape’s pale, livid face. Apparation. Malfoy Manor rising dimly above him. Hushed voices. The clink of glasses. Darkness.

When he woke in the Slytherin boys’ dormitory he was certain, for a blazing, blissful moment, that it had all been a dream. He was not huddled in the parlor of Malfoy Manor, listening to Bellatrix and Narcissa’s hushed argument, awaiting the arrival of his vengeful master. He was at school, in his bed, warm and safe and—

A loud crash startled him, and he tore aside his bed hangings to see Crabbe standing on the other side of the dormitory, a pile of glass at his feet.

“What the devil are you doing?” Draco spat.

“Sorry,” Crabbe muttered. He waved his wand, and the glass reformed into an empty vial. “Lost the bloody Polyjuice though.” He shot Draco a dirty look.

“I told you, Crabbe,” Draco drawled. “If you weren’t such a clumsy oaf—” Draco froze, realizing as the words left his lips that he had spoken them before.

“Whatever,” Crabbe mumbled.

Somewhere behind his hangings, Goyle snorted and started to snore. Draco leaned back slowly and pulled his hangings shut. He wanted so badly for this to be real. It felt so real. The sheets under his hands, the faded green of his bed hangings, Goyle’s throaty snore. But it couldn’t be. He had lived this already.

Crabbe’s footsteps shuffled towards the bathroom and the dormitory fell silent again. Draco looked down at his hands— clean, nails unbroken. Normal, but not _right_. He had broken a nail in his scramble up the Astronomy Tower.

If this was a dream, it was unlike any dream he ever had before. It felt more like he had traveled back in time, but this was no time-turner jaunt. He was exactly where he had been the morning before. Draco ran a hand through his hair. He was here. If it didn’t last, none of it mattered. But if it was real… Cowardly hope leapt in Draco’s chest. He thought of breakfast in the Great Hall, Parkinson at his side, begging him for attention; long, dull classes with nothing to do but mock Granger or Longbottom; the violent pleasure of a whole crowd of people laughing alongside him; seeing Potter flush red with helpless anger; the warmth of the common room, the comfort of his own silk slippers and his evening wine nicked from the kitchens. Long days without a single thought of the Room of Requirement.

Maybe it was impossible, but Draco didn’t care. He shoved down his dark thoughts and pulled aside his bed hangings to get dressed, joining Crabbe and Goyle as they ambled up to the Great Hall. The dungeons were chilly and damp as always, but when they reached the upper floors they found sunlight pouring through the windows. Draco looked surreptitiously around, trying to determine if this was, indeed, the morning before the Death Eaters infiltrated Hogwarts. Had he passed Milly Bulstrode on the stairs that morning, her hair smoking from an ill-cast coiffing charm? Had Crabbe and Goyle been quite this sullen and silent? It was hard to say. He had been so distracted.

They entered the Great Hall, which was bursting with students as always. The ceiling showed a blue sky scudded with thin clouds, but Draco’s eyes went straight to the staff table at the far end of the hall. There, in the seat of honor, sat Albus Dumbledore. He wore his usual starred cloak and pointed hat, and was awkwardly cutting a sausage using only his uninjured hand. The sight of him sitting there whole and well and living made Draco’s knees go weak with relief. It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened.

With a great flurry of wings, the owls streamed in through the windows to deliver the morning post. Draco suddenly remembered— yes, the morning before the Astronomy Tower, Zephyr had brought him a letter from his mother, more evocative in its silences than in its thin queries about his classes and assurances that all was well at home.

“Come on,” Draco said to Crabbe and Goyle, hurrying to the Slytherin table. He had just taken his usual spot, close to the staff table and across from Pansy Parkinson, who perked up at his appearance, when a sleek eagle owl swooped down and landed carefully between the bacon and the marmalade. Zephyr stuck out his leg, which bore a small scroll, and Draco removed it with trembling fingers.

“Aren’t you going to say good morning?” Pansy said sulkily, but Draco wasn’t listening. He tore open the scroll, scanned it quickly, and set it down beside his empty plate. It only took a glance to see that it was the letter he had received the morning before. Or, rather, this morning. The morning he was living a second time.

“Bad news?” Pansy simpered, reaching across the table for Draco’s hand. His fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to yank it away.

“No,” he said smoothly, composing his face into an easy smirk. “I just can’t believe how overprotective my mother is. I swear, she must think I’m a child.”

“She just doesn’t want to lose something as precious as you,” Pansy purred. Draco graced her with a flash of a smile, feeling a familiar rush at the adoration in Pansy’s eyes. He could sense the compliance of the people around him— he had his finger on their pulses. Pansy was too easy. Crabbe and Goyle, resistant now, but still vulnerable— and not just because of the authority in the Dark Mark branded on Draco’s arm. They had been his since they were children, playing on the grounds of Malfoy Manor during dinners and galas, the two brutish boys awed by Draco’s poise and cowed by his ability to convince them that what he wanted was what they really wanted too. This was where Draco belonged: among his people, in control.

It took Draco a moment to register that his exchange with Pansy about the letter certainly hadn’t happened the previous morning. That meant he had control over the events of the day. He could choose what he did. He could shape the outcome of the night that was sure to follow this day.

Looking out across the Great Hall at all of the chattering students, Draco’s relief at returning to Hogwarts began to trickle away. He wasn’t here because he was being saved. He hadn’t returned to the peace of his life before the Dark Lord’s return. He was here because he was being given a second chance to complete his task— to not fuck it up.

The cheerful noise of Hogwarts grated in his ears like a fork against rough stone. Draco didn’t belong here, and he hadn’t belonged here in a long time. He might be a coward, but he had been called to war. There was no turning back.

“Are you sure you’re well? Pansy asked, pausing in the act of buttering Draco’s toast. Draco realized he was gripping his fork as tightly as he had gripped his wand the night before. He relaxed his hold and ran a hand through his hair. He had forgotten to style it as he usually did. But then again, he had been letting his appearance— not to mention his marks— slide in the past few months, so no one would be surprised.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. He was fine— or he would be.

Milly Bulstrode plopped down into the seat beside Pansy, a stormy look on her face, and Pansy was quickly distracted by the disastrous state of her friend’s hair.

“Oh, Milly, what did you _do_?”

“So are we doing it or what?” Crabbe muttered in Draco’s ear. It took Draco a moment to remember what he was talking about.

“Are we—? Oh, yeah. In a minute.” He shoved half a slice of toast into his mouth, though he wasn’t hungry at all. The morning before the tower, he had employed Crabbe to keep watch at the Room of Requirement while he tinkered with the Vanishing Cabinet. It felt like years had passed since then.

“Well, come on then,” Crabbe grumbled.

“Watch your mouth,” Draco spat, tossing the rest of his toast onto his plate. He stood and, beckoning Crabbe to follow, strode towards the Entrance Hall without saying goodbye to Pansy.

As he stepped out of the Great Hall, he almost ran straight into someone barreling in the opposite direction.

“Watch it,” he growled, then froze when he realized who it was. Potter froze too, glaring at Draco with pure, unadulterated loathing. The shard of a memory pierced Draco, and his breath quickened. Potter had chased him and Snape down from the tower, all the way to the castle gates. When Draco had dared to glance over his shoulder, he had seen that horribly familiar face rendered unrecognizable with rage. The sight had been almost more disconcerting than the sight of Dumbledore falling over the ramparts.

“Going somewhere, Malfoy?” Potter muttered, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Why yes, Potter, that’s what walking usually indicates.” Draco was surprised at how normal he sounded. He pushed past Potter, Crabbe lumbering at his side, and swept towards the stairs. He was almost certain that everything had been restored to the state it had been in the morning before the tower, but there was one way to know for sure.

Draco’s heart thudded impatiently against his ribs as they ducked into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Myrtle was humming disconsolately in the U-Bend, and didn’t bother them as Crabbe ducked into a stall to make his Polyjuice transformation. He emerged as a sullen, pig-tailed girl, and Draco sneered.

“Took you long enough.”

The girl opened her mouth to respond, but Draco turned and strode off before she could. He longed to provoke Crabbe further, to goad him and put him in his place again, to flex his control, but he had more important things to concern himself with.

They climbed to the seventh floor in tense silence, stopping when they reached the blank stretch of wall across from the tapestry of the ballet-dancing trolls. Draco had once compared the tapestry’s occupants to Crabbe and Goyle in a particularly devastating remark, but the memory did nothing to warm him now. Draco turned to Crabbe.

“Don’t doze off,” he said. “If anyone passes—”

“I know what to do,” the girl said in a deep voice. “Just get on with it.”

Draco clenched his fists, but let the insolence slide. He turned from Crabbe, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. _Take me to the Vanishing Cabinet._ He crossed in front of the invisible entryway, treading the familiar path back and forth. When he opened his eyes, the door had appeared. Tossing one last warning glare over his shoulder at Crabbe, he pushed it open and stepped into the teetering labyrinth of refuse that had been his haunt for the past year.

He went straight to the cabinet, an unassuming wardrobe wedged between a stack of bloodstained books and a table covered in broken china that growled feebly when Draco approached. Ignoring the cursed plates he reached under the table and pulled out a fine leather notebook emblazoned with the Slytherin crest— a coming-of-age gift from Pansy. The first page still bore an adoring inscription that heavily intimated how much Pansy would like to be Draco’s girlfriend. Now, he flipped hastily past the inscription, and the many pages filled with his own precise hand until he reached the most recent entry.

He scanned it quickly. _29 June. No noticable effects of third incantation adjustment. Wand strokes remain constant. Term ends in 16 days._ Then blank pages.

The last entry was from the day before the tower, the day before he finally perfected his spell and repaired the link between the two Vanishing Cabinets. The entry was tinged with desperation. _Term ends in 16 days._ Draco remembered that feeling: the cold, creeping suspicion that the Dark Lord did not intend for him to succeed. The gaunt, deathly face that looked back at him in the mirror. He had been weak and faithless, turning to a Mudblood ghost for comfort. He remembered Potter discovering him in that state, and seared with shame. Potter might think him weak, but when had that lousy pet of Dumbledore’s ever done anything but cower from the truth? The Dark Lord often spoke of Potter, lamenting that the boy could have been great if he weren’t so weak. Too weak to accept true power.

Draco himself had seen a glimmer of something in Potter once. He wasn’t sure what attracted his attention that day in Madam Malkin’s, but he had watched closely as the Muggle-bred boy looked around in bald amazement, stumbling over the hem of his new robes, stinking of Mudblood. Draco had tried to intimidate the boy, talking about the different houses, putting on a show of his knowledge. But Potter had surprised him by responding with perfect equanimity. He had to have been nervous, but nothing in him wavered or cowered. It had made Draco...curious.

But it didn’t take long at Hogwarts for Draco to realize that he despised every inch of Potter. That he wanted him destroyed, with a fervency he felt for little else. When Draco finally succeeded in killing Dumbledore, Potter would be that much closer to obliteration.

He pulled a quill from his rucksack and set up an inkwell. He was sure he could remember the incantation that had finally worked, but this was not the time to risk sloppy spellwork. He touched his quill to paper and began re-doing his final calculations.

It was easy to recreate what he had done the evening before, which was really the evening that had yet to come. Draco found himself smiling at the result— a few lines of spellwords, each calibrated and tested to perfection. This was impressive magic, well above the NEWT level. If Dumbledore saw this, he would be impressed. Even McGonagall would have to admit the skill involved, regardless of his currently-abysmal marks in Transfiguration.

Now he was ready, and all he needed to do was wait until Dumbledore left the school. Then, a second chance. This time he wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t fail.


	3. Day Two

A loud crash woke Draco. He shot upright, heart pounding, and looked wildly around for the source of the sound. Had the Dark Lord arrived? Slowly, as his senses returned, he realized he was in a bed, shrouded in dim green light. With a trembling hand he pulled the hangings open a crack and peered out. There was the lumpy shape of Crabbe, stuffing an empty vial into his sock drawer. Of the four other beds, three were still silent, their occupants hidden behind faded green curtains. Above them, photographs and posters tacked to the walls with Temporary Sticking Charms and Spellotape flashed with color. As if on cue, Goyle grunted and began to snore.

Draco let the hangings fall shut and looked down at his pale hands. Clean, nails unbroken. He closed his eyes and images of the previous night flickered in his mind’s eye. He had rushed up the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, flush with exhilaration, cries and whizzing curses echoing below him. He was going to get there first. This time, he was going to finish it. He burst out into the cool evening air, prepared with his two spells— _Expelliarmus_ first, _Avada Kedavra_ second. No hesitation.

But then, his eyes fell on Dumbledore, the green glow of the Dark Mark shimmering in his silver beard, those eyes, pale and unflinching. Those eyes knew Draco the moment they saw him. They knew his intentions, knew his desires, knew his fears. And Draco hesitated.

There was paralyzing fear. He lost his wand. He tore through the night with Snape, ice slowly closing in around his insides.

Now, back in his bed once more, Draco cursed under his breath and jammed his fist into his pillow. Goyle’s snores stopped abruptly, and Draco heard the creaking of bedsprings as his loyal companion got out of bed. Soon, the dormitory was filled with the shuffling and muttering of all five Slytherin sixth-year boys getting dressed.

“Are you coming to breakfast or not, Draco?” Goyle said gruffly.

“I’m not well,” Draco said, his voice convincingly hoarse.

“What about the Room of— ?”

“I said I’m not well,” Draco interrupted, cursing Goyle’s inability to be discreet. Why had he chosen these incompetent oafs to help him with the most important task of his life? But even his anger at Crabbe and Goyle couldn’t distract Draco from the fact that it was he who had failed, not them. He was the incompetent one. “We’ll do it tomorrow,” he added when it seemed Goyle was still there.

“I can’t tomorrow, I’ve got remedial Transfiguration.”

“Just go!” Draco snapped. “If I need you tomorrow, we’ll do it tomorrow.”

He heard muttering on the other side of the hangings— perhaps Crabbe and Goyle plotting mutiny, perhaps Blaise and Nott wondering, as they had all term, what precisely Draco was doing when he skipped classes and slacked off on his duties as Head Boy. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Draco lay down and waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs, and the dorm fell silent. Then he pulled aside his hangings, looked about to make sure he was really alone, and rolled up his sleeve. The Dark Mark stared back at him. It was pale and still, nothing more than an ink skull and a twisting serpent, but it conjured other Dark Marks in his mind, like the one that hovered over the field of tents, two years before, when he crouched with his mother, waiting for his father to return for them. Narcissa’s face had twisted with glee when she saw the raucous crowd of hooded figures and the Muggles suspended above them, even though she had chided Lucius later for his carelessness.

Draco also thought of the Dark Mark that had appeared— or had yet to appear— over Hogwarts. He heard Dumbledore's words in his mind. _It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now._ And, when Greyback showed up, uninvited, unexpected. _I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live._ Those words had hit Draco like a punch to the stomach, and he had blurted, without thinking, _I didn’t._ Did it matter? Did he really care so much about Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy and Blaise? Did he care if Dumbledore thought he was the kind of person who would purposefully let Greyback into a school full of sleeping children? Was that what made him hesitate again?

Draco let out a cry of frustration and tugged the sleeve of his pajamas down to cover the mark. There was something wrong here. It wasn’t his own fault that he was reliving this day over and over. Perhaps whatever was making the day repeat was also what caused him to fail again and again in his task. Draco got to his feet and began dressing distractedly, putting on two differently colored socks without noticing. If he was under some kind of spell, perhaps an enchanted hallucination, he could do something about it.

Another memory swam hazily to the fore of his mind. This memory wasn’t from his second attempt at killing Dumbledore; it was from his first. Feet pounding, slipping on the grass. Snape’s grip tight on his arm. Potter behind them, hurling useless spells, screaming at them, crying. But then— Draco stumbling in the grass. Something had caused that. A flash, a silver flash.

His memory was so jumbled, so hazy, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t remembering a different spell, one cast in the Entrance Hall or up on the tower. He closed his eyes and tried to feel backwards. He had looked back at the castle, for one last glimpse of the high stone walls washed in acid light— and something had hit him square in the back. He froze with one of his polished Oxfords in his hand, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Potter. It had to be. It always _was_.

With a growl of frustration Draco threw his shoe to the ground and began pacing the dormitory. Potter, again. The Sectumsempra scars on Draco’s chest, the ones Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been able to vanish entirely, tingled. Boiling hatred sloshed in his stomach. Potter, at every turn, thwarting him, taunting him, winning the professors’ favor by playing innocent, playing hero. His first instinct was to track Potter down, corner him in an empty corridor, and torture the answer out of him.

_Calm, Draco. Winning is waiting._ Lucius’s voice echoed in Draco’s mind. He stopped pacing and forced a deep breath through his nose, his fists still clenched at his sides. Wealth and survival didn’t come to the hasty. Draco had failed his father enough over the past year. He had rushed to accept the Dark Lord’s task, eager to salvage his father’s name and, as he grew more and more desperate, he had done several hasty, unwise things. The cursed opals, the poisoned mead.

Once, years ago, after Draco foolishly missed the snitch in a Quidditch match, leaving it to be caught by a floundering Potter, his father had said, _You’re a Slytherin when it suits you but a Hufflepuff when it matters_. Draco had vented his rage on Crabbe and Goyle that day, berating them for failing to properly bludgeon the Gryffindors until Montague called him a snivelling toadstool whose father had bought him a place on the team. It wasn’t true— at least not completely— but it sent Draco fuming to the dormitories without supper where, wracked with self-loathing, he cried until Blaise barged in looking for his acne potion.

The memory made Draco slightly sick to his stomach. But he wasn’t that child anymore. He was a Death Eater, and not to be trifled with by a scrawny, orphan Gryffindor with a grudge. Potter was weak. Draco was not. And he was _not_ hasty. He sat down on his bed, changed his unmatched sock, and put on the shoe he had thrown to the ground. In the bathroom, he washed his face and applied the cologne his mother had given him for his seventeenth birthday. It was infused with a confidence charm; too much could make a man overly ambitious, but the correct amount would be just enough to get him through the day. He slicked his hair with Euhler’s Expert Gentleman’s Gel and raised his wand to flatten his stubborn cowlick. When he straightened his emerald green tie, the reflection staring back at him began to resemble the Draco Malfoy that had ruled the corridors as part of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, or flashed Potter Stinks badges during the Triwizard Tournament. He was no Hufflepuff.

With a trace of a smile on his lips, Draco returned to the dormitory and gathered his bag. He had to appear like a normal student. He also had to avoid Crabbe and Goyle, but that should be easy. According to the schedule lying on Goyle’s end table, the two boys, who always copied each other’s timetables, would spend the entire morning in the upper floors. Draco’s plan, which had come to him under the influence of his cologne, would keep him in the dungeons.

From his first year at Hogwarts, Draco had known Severus Snape could be trusted, even though his father warned him to be wary of anyone too close to Dumbledore. Now, however, he couldn’t go to Snape. The man who had once been his favorite professor had become his greatest torment, tracking him down and interrogating him about his task, trying to steal Draco’s glory and undermine his efforts. But Draco knew of another Slytherin— a cowardly pawn of Dumbledore, to be sure, but a Slytherin— whose knowledge of magic might be of use. Draco couldn’t trust him with the truth, but if he asked the question right, he could probably get a theoretical answer that would help him reverse whatever enchantment he was under. He still wanted to torture Potter, but, as he had quickly realized, the Potter in this reality had yet to cast the spell Draco was under. Draco needed a different strategy, a more subtle one. If this failed he would bury himself in the library, but only as a last resort.

Draco slipped through the mostly empty dungeon corridors until he reached Professor Slughorn’s office. No one answered his knock, so he took a seat on the bench outside the door to wait for the professor to return. He was almost certain the Potions Master was meant to have a free period soon, as he had once hosted a small gathering of the inner Slug Club at that hour, to which Draco was not invited. The slight still stung, but Draco thought of Aunt Bellatrix— all her pride and dignity intact, but half her sanity left behind in Azkaban. She had a little too much Gryffindor in her for her own good. A true Slytherin knew when to grovel and charm.

Shuffling footsteps in the corridor announced someone’s approach and Draco stiffened, unable to help feeling like an intruder even though he wasn’t a fugitive— not yet. Slughorn’s rotund figure rounded the corner, his nose buried in a stack of parchments. He walked straight past Draco and began fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Failing to find them he cursed under his breath and waved his wand. The door clicked open, and Draco got to his feet.

“Excuse me, Professor Slughorn?”

The Potions Master jumped, almost dropping his papers. “Good lord, boy, you nearly startled me out of my skin. Shouldn’t lurk like that.”

“I wasn’t— I mean, I’m sorry, sir. Do you have a moment?”

“A moment? I don’t know, I’m rather busy…”

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

Professor Slughorn froze, the color slipping from his ruddy cheeks. “You— you’re Malfoy’s boy, aren’t you?”

Draco felt heat rise to his cheeks, but he did his best to arrange his features into some semblance of humility. “Yes sir. May I speak with you?”

“I have a strict policy. A strict policy. No discussion of topics not directly related to class material.”

“This is about class material, sir,” Draco said quickly. With great effort he lowered his eyes and added, “Actually it’s about...my marks.”

“Ah.” Slughorn’s expression softened from inexplicable terror to mild disapproval. “Yes, well, I’m not surprised. Come in, then.” He ushered Draco into his cozy office and set down his papers, taking a seat behind his cluttered desk and pointing Draco to the rather less luxurious chair across. “I have to say, I’m disappointed in your work, Mr. Malfoy. Severus— Professor Snape, that is— spoke very highly of you, but you haven’t displayed much promise in my classroom. Missed three classes, as a matter of fact. Frankly, I’m not sure you ought to have continued beyond your OWLS.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco muttered. Underneath a shamed countenance, he seethed. If only this fat old has-been knew what he had been doing this year, what he had created all on his own. “Is there anything that can be done?”

Professor Slughorn sighed and pulled a bottle of amber liquid from the bottom drawer of his desk. He conjured a single tumbler and poured himself a generous portion. “Elf tasted,” he said. “I’d offer you a spot, but you can’t be too careful these days. After the Weasley boy— no, can’t be too careful.” Shaking his balding head he took a sip of the mead and smacked his lips. “The only thing I can offer is remedial potions. If you’re not too proud, that is. Frankly, I’d suggest you consider dropping the subject altogether. What are your career aspirations, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco gritted his teeth. “I’ll consider dropping the subject,” he said, somewhat curtly. “Thank you for your advice, professor.”

Slughorn seemed surprised at how quickly Draco had come around. “Cheers to that.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. Draco wished he had made Rosmerta poison every bottle of mead sent to Slughorn, not just the one that fell into Weasley’s hands. Dumbledore’s voice surfaced, unbidden, in his mind. _Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts…._ He shook the thought away. “It’s always hard to let go, when it isn’t your area…” Slughorn continued, oblivious.

“Sir,” Draco said. “I had another question.”

Slughorn’s eyes narrowed. “About the essay I set?”

“About classwork for...for Professor Flitwick.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, m’boy. Charms was never my area— not too ashamed to admit that.”

“It’s more about magical theory,” Draco said, casting about. He didn’t want this entire humiliating visit to be a loss. “I was wondering, is it possible to force a wizard to relive a single day over and over in their mind?”

Slughorn frowned and set down his glass. “This is a theoretical question? For Professor Flitwick?”

“Yes,” Draco said, as calmly as he could.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever heard of such a thing. There’s ways, surely. An enchanted sleep or somesuch. But that wouldn’t be truly reliving, just a hallucination. A dream. Rather arcane for Flitwick, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s more of my own research topic,” Draco said. “Something I’m curious about. Theoretically.”

Without warning, Slughorn’s face darkened. “Out, boy!”

“I— excuse me?”

“Out of my office! If this is some trick about memory, if you’re trying to dredge up the past— well, I thought Dumbledore could do better than you, but— well!” he sputtered.

“I’m sorry sir, I have no idea—”

“I don’t discuss matters outside of class material, hear? Out!”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. He stood, shouldering his bag, and stormed out of the office, head buzzing. He rounded the corner beside Slughorn’s office, and ran right into someone standing just out of sight on the other side. Their bodies collided head on, books and Draco’s bag tumbling to the floor. Draco stumbled, barely remaining on his feet, and the other person flew to grab their books, wispy blonde hair billowing.

“Watch where you’re going,” Draco spat.

“I _was_ watching,” said Luna Lovegood, the barest hint of an edge marring her dreamy voice. She stood, books piled once again in her arms, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. In one hand she held Draco’s rucksack like it was something very foul she had discovered on the bottom of a river. Draco snatched it from her.

“I don’t like you,” Lovegood said without prompting. “But you shouldn’t be reckless with experimental magic.”

“I shouldn’t— what?”

But Lovegood seemed to think the conversation was over. She turned away from Draco, heading towards the door to Slughorn’s office. Unthinking, Draco pulled his wand out of his sleeve and closed the space between himself and Lovegood in two strides. He grabbed her arm and pinned her against the wall, wand in her face.

“What do you know?” he demanded. “What did you find?”

“I— I don’t know anything,” Lovegood gasped, struggling against his grip. “You’re a coward.”

“I’m not a coward! Tell me what you’re talking about or I’ll give them a reason to call you Loony.”

Lovegood’s face paled, but her expression remained defiant. “It sounded like you were talking to Slughorn about an experimental spell of some kind. It’s a noble field, but you shouldn’t attempt it without proper precautions.”

Draco’s grip loosened, relief trickling in to replace his sudden surge of terror. She didn’t know anything about the Room of Requirement. But he kept his wand pointed at her face. “Why were you listening at doors, then?”

“I was waiting to see Professor Slughorn,” Luna said, her airy calm returning. “Some of the Ganglis Weed he’s been using in his potions is actually a protected species that provides important habitat for Snalrups. I thought he ought to know that—”

“Oh yes, the Snalrups,” Draco sneered. “Be sure to tell him not to brew anything in the warlock’s hopping pot either.”

Luna shrugged off his grip. “Snalrups are a threatened species, you know.” And with that she turned and pushed open the heavy door to Slughorn’s office without knocking.

Draco watched her go, and the moment she was out of sight he realized he had no idea what to do next. He had several hours before Madam Rosmerta would tip him off to Dumbledore’s departure. He knew of no one else that he could trust to ask even a hypothetical question. McGonagall was too sharp, and all of them were too far under Dumbledore’s thumb to regard him with anything but suspicion. He briefly considered coming clean to Snape and asking for his help— but he couldn’t. Not yet.

The library it was, then. He shouldered his rucksack and trudged down the corridor, the last effects of his confidence cologne trickling away.

In the library, Draco made a beeline for the section on curses, examining the spines for a title that might be of use. He searched the indices and chapter titles of _Mind Befuddlers: A Confusing Compendium_ and _Chronus Chatterbaum’s Guide to Distorting Time_ without any luck. _Enhanced Interrogation for the Busy Wizard_, touting _over 50 easy spells to find out what’s going on in their heads!_ was equally useless, and _Spelles of the Broken Mind_, which was written in Middle English, was just legends. None of the books made reference to silver jets of light, or days repeating over and over.

He left after two hours and wandered the corridors aimlessly. Eventually, he found himself outside the Room of Requirement yet again. This time there was no Crabbe or Goyle to keep watch, but he was past caring. He crossed three times in front of the door, asking it to reveal the room of hidden things, and stepped inside. The familiar, cluttered hall stretched before him, all of the teetering alleys of contraband he had never really bothered to explore.

As far as he could see, he had two choices. One was to try again. Fix the Vanishing Cabinet, let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, try once more to kill Dumbledore when he had the chance. The other option was to...not. To leave the cabinet broken, let Dumbledore leave and return in peace, and see what happened. If this was some sort of enchanted sleep or spell addling his mind, who knew what would happen. Perhaps the curse would break. But if this was real, and time resumed...what kind of consequences would Draco face? The end of term was fast approaching. Any day the Dark Lord could lose faith in him, decide he had failed. Snape could take matters into his own hands. The old panic and dread rose in Draco, threatening to choke him. He couldn’t take that chance. Better dragged home by Snape, humiliated, than facing the Dark Lord alone as a failure.

Draco swallowed, gathering the shreds of his confidence, and fumbled for his wand. Fix the cabinet, kill Dumbledore. Then, maybe, things would return to normal. They had to.


	4. Day Three

When Draco woke in the Slytherin dormitory, despair sank into his bones like lead. He pulled the sheets back over his head, ignoring Crabbe and Goyle’s attempts to talk to him and, when the dormitory had cleared out, drifted back to sleep. He dozed on and off throughout the day, waking now and again to the sound of someone moving about the dormitory or distant voices that could have been part of a dream.

He was vaguely aware of time passing, of the light that filtered through his hangings deepening with the day’s progress, but he was beyond caring. Whatever happened, happened. He could not relive the tower another time.

The light faded and disappeared. Draco heard voices around him, the usual shuffling as his fellow sixth-years prepared for bed. Hazily, he realized no one had bothered to check on him to see if he was ill. Better that way.

The last thing Draco heard before slipping away was Goyle telling Blaise to knock off his wandlight and go to sleep.


	5. Experimental Magic

Draco’s gloom lasted several days, marked only by the smashing of Crabbe’s polyjuice potion every morning that never failed to startle Draco awake. Each day was the same, and no one ever pulled aside Draco's hangings to see why he refused to leave his bed. Of course, for them it was only one day played over and over, always erased for a fresh start in the morning.

Although he was rarely awake long enough to make any conscious decisions, Draco began to resign himself to wasting away in limbo. Then, one morning, the familiar crash woke him from a strange and galling dream. He was young, before Hogwarts, and he had escaped Dobby, who was supposed to be minding him while his parents were off attending some dinner party or another. Twilight hovered over the grounds of Malfoy Manor, which were silent and still but for the faint chirping of crickets and the hedges rustling in a light summer breeze. Draco ran down the garden path and found himself in a field of tall grasses that certainly didn’t exist anywhere on the carefully-manicured lawns of his home. He hesitated, then plunged into the field, pushing his way through the grasses that waved above his head. It was as good a place as any to disappear. He trudged and trudged until his energy began to lag and then, suddenly, found himself in a small clearing. In it stood another young boy with a cloud of curly black hair, dark brown skin, and an elegant dagger of a smile that made him seem much older.

“Blaise,” Draco whispered.

“Hello,” the boy said, his voice high and young. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Draco looked around himself at the field of grasses but found that his surroundings had melted into dingy gray walls and teetering piles of abandoned furniture, stained books, broken instruments… He turned back to Blaise, who had drawn closer and aged. His hair close-cropped, he towered over Draco, smirking down at him with that irresistible fire in his liquid brown eyes.

“It’s the Room of Requirement, isn’t it?” Blaise said. “It gives you what you need.”

He was close, his hands hovering at Draco’s waist, his green eyes drawing closer… Draco jerked backwards.

“What?” Potter said mildly, standing where Blaise stood only moments before. “You don’t have to worry. Nothing that happens here matters. It all goes away.”

Draco turned and ran from Potter, charging carelessly through the piled debris, knocking stacks of random objects to the ground…

And then he was sitting upright in his bed, drenched in sweat, panting, as, somewhere outside his hangings, Crabbe cursed under his breath. Draco sank back into his pillow and willed the remnants of the dream to vanish from his mind. It wasn’t the first time he had had a dream like that about Blaise. They had been circling each other since childhood, Blaise always the more handsome, more detached, more everything. Ever since their drunken, fumbling encounter after the Yule Ball, the one Blaise purported not to remember, the dreams had dogged Draco, growing less frequent as time wore on but never vanishing entirely.

However, Potter had never appeared in any of these dreams, and the mere memory of his bright green eyes so close made Draco sick to his stomach. He clenched his teeth, seething with the urge to lash out at anyone near, or to seek out Moaning Myrtle so he could let out the horrible tension inside of him, the despair. A single shred of the dream swam to the surface of Draco’s mind. _You don’t have to worry. Nothing that happens here matters. It all goes away._

It all goes away.

“Are you coming to breakfast or not, Draco?”

“I’m not well,” Draco said automatically. “Go on without me, I’ll talk to you later.”

“What about— ?”

“Just go!”

Muttering, shuffling. The dormitory emptied out. Draco sat up in bed, a new energy trickling into his limbs. It didn’t seem to matter what he did— whether or not he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, whether or not he killed Dumbledore. He was stuck in this day, but also safe in it. None of his actions had any effect, so he could do exactly as he liked.

The dream forgotten, Draco got out of bed and threw on a pair of robes. He had no plan, but many vague fantasies flitted through his mind, not least of which was forgetting the Room of Requirement and going about his day as if he were just another Hogwarts student again. 

First, he made for the Great Hall first, his stomach hollow and panging after days of not eating. Hunger didn’t seem to affect him quite the same way as if he were living normal, consecutive days, but it had still crept up on him. He showed up at the tail end of breakfast, just as Potter was leaving the Great Hall. Not eager to make the same mistake he had made the first morning, Draco ducked behind a pillar until Potter was gone. Then, he slipped into a seat at the far end of the Slytherin table, alone. He stuffed himself until the dishes began to magically vanish with the end of the meal, then headed out for the Quidditch pitch, which was empty this time of day. The sky was cloudless and blue, the air losing the last of its morning chill. Draco changed, grabbed his broom, and soared upwards, the wind flattening his hair back from his face and rushing joyfully in his ears. For the first time in days— in months— he laughed out loud with joy.

Draco enjoyed himself for two glorious days. He avoided everyone he knew and did exactly as he pleased, knowing there would be no consequences. One night, he swam naked in the lake, the chill water washing the sweat from a hot evening flight from his skin. It didn’t matter if someone saw, didn’t matter if he was caught outside of the castle, didn’t matter if the Giant Squid ate him. Tomorrow he would wake up in his bed safe and sound and whole.

He spent a whole day in Hogsmeade getting sloshed at the Hog’s Head, where no one gave a hinkypunk’s ass if he was a student or not. But by the end of the second day, a hollow feeling had taken root in his stomach. He couldn’t live this way forever, his life stalled on one, endlessly repeating day. It was nice to be invisible for a time— but not for the rest of his life, everyone going mindlessly about the same tasks, him the only one conscious of their reality. If he stayed this way, he would never see his parents again. Never grow older. The thought made him painfully claustrophobic. He had to find a way to break this curse, this spell, this whatever-it-was. He would deal with the consequences when they came.

Wandering the castle, lost in his thoughts, Draco found himself treading the path to Moaning Myrtle’s out of order bathroom. He hadn’t visited her since his fight with Potter a couple weeks before. Or, at least, Draco thought it had been only a couple weeks. Time was becoming slippery for him.

He found Myrtle floating cross-legged over one of the mirrors, examining her reflection with a morose expression. When Draco’s reflection appeared in the mirror her eyes widened behind her horn-rim glasses and she whirled into the air.

“Draco! I thought you were never coming back.” Her sulky pout twitched with the hint of a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “After what happened…”

Myrtle swooped down beside him at once. “Of course, poor thing. That horrible Potter boy. To think I ever helped him.”

Draco couldn’t hold back a smirk. At least there was one person— well, ghost— in this school who didn’t worship the ground Harry “The Chosen One” Potter walked on. But the smile slid from his face when he remembered the circumstances that brought him here.

“Myrtle, I...I have to tell you something.”

“Anything, Draco.”

She batted her eyelashes and swooped back to perch above one of the sinks. Draco crossed the room to lean against the sink beside her. He knew why he kept seeking Myrtle out, and why he told her all of his most shameful thoughts: she was dead, and no one had listened to her when she was alive, either.

“I’m under a curse,” he said. “Or something. Some kind of spell. I’ve been reliving the same day— this day— over and over.”

Myrtle’s eyes widened again. “You’ve been cursed? By who?”

Draco grimaced. “Potter. I’m sure of it.”

“Not again! What has he done?”

“I— I’m not sure.” Draco wanted to tell Myrtle more, explain the flash of silver light and pick her brain for ideas, but could he tell her some of it without telling her all? He had always been careful with Myrtle, sharing his desperation but never its cause, always keeping his details vague. He knew how she had died, and doubted she would remain a ready ear for his troubles if she knew who Draco worked for. “I can’t figure out what spell he used.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said again, frustration creeping into his voice. He kicked at the pipes under one of the sinks. “I can’t believe it’s him. Again. Everywhere I turn, he’s there.”

“You’re enemies,” Myrtle said with some relish. “It’s unavoidable.”

Draco wanted to protest, but as he thought back over the more than five years he had known Potter, he had to admit it all had a feel of inevitability. From the beginning, Draco hadn’t been able to resist tormenting Potter, and Potter couldn’t seem to resist giving as good as he got. There was the fake duel in their first year, when Draco schemed to get Potter caught by Filch. Then, when Potter helped Hagrid dispose of an illegal dragon, Draco had eavesdropped and snuck out of bed to alert McGonagall. Each encounter exhilarated him in a way little else did. Now, the thrill had gone out of it, but he was still locked in that same battle. Only, there were forces much larger than him or Potter pulling the strings.

“I’ve got to go,” Draco said to Myrtle, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but the bathroom where Potter had scarred him.

“Go? But you just got here,” Myrtle whined.

“I know, I’m sorry, but I-- I've got things to do.”

“Good luck, Draco!” Myrtle called after him as he hurried away.

He tried everything. He walked straight off the castle grounds and into Hogsmeade, then apparated to Malfoy Manor. When he landed, he was standing in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts. He tried again, and the same thing happened.

He wrote a long letter to his mother, detailing his predicament exactly and imploring her to respond within the day. No response. He couldn’t be sure if the letter arrived but his mother couldn’t respond in time, or if the spell that trapped him simply blocked all his attempts to communicate with the world outside Hogwarts.

He read through what felt like every book in the library that could possibly relate to his problem. This took several days at least, as he couldn’t bring himself to spend more than a few hours there at a time. In between stints in the library he eavesdropped on a meeting of Charms Club to see if they might mention a charm that produced a silver flash of light and made a single day repeat (a desperate plan, that one), spent hours poring over his old notes from Defense Against the Dark Arts (for the first time truly appreciating how abysmal his education on the subject had been), and even cornered Blaise alone in the Great Hall to ask him casually if he had ever heard of such a spell (even Blaise, best Slytherin student in their year, could think of nothing).

He tried to think of some way he could question McGonagall or Snape without raising their suspicions. At first this stumped him, as they were the two professors least likely to believe his very specific questions came from innocent curiosity— McGonagall was Dumbledore’s pet, and Snape would assume it had something to do with the Dark Lord’s task. But then he remembered that he lived in a world with no consequences.

His first attempt to Confund and question Professor McGonagall went terribly. Draco snuck into the classroom where she stood alone, facing away from the door, shuffling through a pile of student papers. He raised his wand, spell on his lips— and McGonagall turned. Before the word could even form in Draco’s mouth, her wand flicked and he found himself petrified, wand clattering to the floor. She un-petrified him, conjuring ropes to bind his hands and led him straight to Dumbledore’s office. There, the headmaster examined him with his piercing blue eyes. _This will all be over soon,_ Draco told himself. He could handle interrogation, make up some lie, and he would wake up in his bed in the morning.

But Dumbledore did not interrogate him, did not force him to drink Veritaserum, did not expel him immediately. He simply sat across from Draco, studying him over his half-moon spectacles, until a hot-cold prickle moved across Draco’s skin.

“Draco,” Dumbledore said softly. “Is there anything you want to tell me? I promise you that anything you speak in this room will remain between us and my very discreet portraits.” He waved his uninjured hand at the sleeping headmasters on the wall. When Draco said nothing, he added, “You are safe here, Draco. No harm will come to you while you remain under my protection.”

Draco swallowed, the words taking him right back to the tower. “No,” he said thickly.

Dumbledore sighed. “Then I am afraid I must decide on a punishment without knowing why you attempted to attack a Hogwarts teacher. Normally, such an offense would lead to immediate expulsion.”

_Hm._ This would be interesting. Expelled, sent to pack, sent home. Would he see his parents before the day reset?

“However,” Dumbledore went on. “I must be honest with you, Mr. Malfoy.” He had stopped using Draco’s first name. “I am more afraid of what you might do outside of my supervision than what you will do within its bounds. You will have detention with me, for the rest of the year. And you will stay here, with me, in this office until you feel ready to explain your motives.”

Draco stared at his hands, unable to muster a reaction. Dumbledore suspected him— Dumbledore feared what he might do. The thought flooded him with raw, burning pride and something akin to fear. Then he looked up, and met Dumbledore’s eyes. What he saw there extinguished any perverse sense of triumph. It was pity. Dumbledore _pitied_ him.

Draco wasn’t sure what to do. He stared at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore stared back with those awful, shining, piercing eyes. Draco felt naked, laid bare before the man he had been striving for so long to kill. Baffled by Dumbledore’s lack of fear, or rage, or vengeful pride, he felt like a snuffed candle.

When Draco remained silent, Dumbledore settled in to wait. He twiddled his thumbs, hummed a small tune. After a good quarter of an hour he reached for some papers and a quill and set to writing, ignoring Draco completely. Draco knew he just needed to wait until the day reset. He was deeply grateful that he had waited for the evening to attack McGonagall. But still, at least five hours stretched ahead of him, with nothing to do but sit in silence. After three hours had passed, the stillness broken only by the scratching of Dumbledore’s quill and the faint snoring of the portraits, Draco was ready to confess to anything. He could say the Dark Lord ordered him to Confund McGonagall and use her to infiltrate Hogwarts. He could say he was overcome with rage after receiving a “D” on his last Transfiguration essay (that wouldn’t even be a lie). He even considered telling Dumbledore the truth— that he had been ordered by the Dark Lord to kill the headmaster. That in the process of doing so Potter had enchanted him somehow, and he was now trapped in a single endless day. It made an odd kind of sense. Dumbledore was one of the greatest wizards (in skill if not in power) of the age. Surely he would know what kind of spell Draco was under.

But no. That idea was absurd. Draco couldn’t confide his murder plans in his intended victim. He was no longer sure what he planned to do when the curse was broken, but if he found himself on the Astronomy Tower again, facing Voldemort’s wrath, he needed every advantage he could get. He leaned back in his chair and forced himself to wait until midnight.

When Draco woke the next morning, he knew he needed a different plan. If McGonagall could sense his presence and counter his charm so quickly, there was no way he fared better against Snape, an accomplished legilimens. This also made him wonder how he had been able to disarm Dumbledore at all, that night on the tower. Had Dumbledore been incapacitated somehow? Had the headmaster...let him win? His wounded pride let out a pulse of anger. This was ridiculous. He had proven his abilities again and again— excelling in his classes for years, fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. He was no mere student, something no one at Hogwarts seemed capable of appreciating. He had bested Dumbledore. There was a reason the Dark Lord chose him, a reason for the year of desperation, for the twenty pounds he lost, for the sleepless nights and the sudden discovery that he was very, very alone. Everything he had gone through was because he was needed. His abilities made him unique, and his Malfoy heritage made him special, so there was a reason. Wasn’t there?

With a cry of frustration Draco yanked back the hangings on his bed— and found himself facing a roomful of half-dressed Slytherins, all staring at him. He had forgotten to wait until they were gone. Really, he had forgotten they existed at all. It felt so much like he lived in his own world, isolated from everyone else. Blaise raised an eyebrow, then turned away, tying his tie. Crabbe and Goyle glowered at him like they were expecting to be berated. Everyone else was avoiding his eye.

Face burning, and furious at himself for even deigning to be embarrassed, Draco got up and stalked to the bathroom. He needed to break this curse. It was messing with his head, confusing him. A few hours alone with Dumbledore and he had almost confessed everything, so desperate was he for someone to take control, to solve everything for him.

No. Draco was a Malfoy, a Slytherin, an accomplished wizard and a Death Eater. He would solve this on his own.

Draco decided that his mistake had been to immediately attempt to gain information from one of the most accomplished witches at Hogwarts, if not in England itself. Perhaps McGonagall, Snape, or Dumbledore would be most likely to know something about arcane magic not even referenced in the library, but there were other professors who might be more trusting, more likely to let their guard down long enough to be Confunded. There were, in short, stupider professors. Hagrid would be the obvious answer— ridiculous oaf— but also least likely to have any information whatsoever. Besides, his thick giant’s hide might protect against charms. Professor Sprout’s specialty made her useless, unless Draco had mistaken a plant hurled at his face for a spell. Binns was hopeless and— could a wizard even enchant a ghost? Flitwick seemed a bit doddering and harmless, but Draco had seen him cast charms so fast over his shoulder that they ruffled the hair of passerby. Trelawney, useless.

Which left Slughorn. Draco’s first instinct and his last chance. At least in this case he knew exactly where to find the man.

Draco took his time getting ready, and when he reached the Entrance Hall, Potter was leaving breakfast, heading for the stairs. He walked with his head bent, and didn’t seem to notice Draco at all. This time, Draco stayed where he was and watched Potter go. He had been so preoccupied with his own worries the past year that he had paid far less attention to his enemy. Now, he realized how odd it was that Potter had been eating alone. When he was with his friends, he was always moving— talking, laughing, whispering conspiratorially. Recently, he had been indulging in disgusting public displays with the youngest Weasley. Now, on his own, he looked smaller. He walked with his shoulders hunched, an almost hunted air about him. Good. Draco straightened his own posture and walked into the Great Hall with his head held high. If anyone deserved to be taken down a peg, it was Potter.

When Draco finally finished a rather indulgent breakfast and made his way down to the dungeons, he found Slughorn’s office door slightly ajar, voices drifting out into the hall. Draco crept closer to listen.

“...sorry, my dear, but I’ve never heard of a Snalrup. Are you sure they are, er, real?”

“Absolutely,” came Luna Lovegood’s affronted voice. “My father…”

Draco backed away from the door, scowling. He had come a bit later than intended. He considered waiting out of sight to avoid Lovegood, but she would have no memory at all of their last exchange, and so no reason to acknowledge him at all. Normally when Lovegood encountered him unexpectedly she stuck her nose in the air and hurried on— if Draco didn’t take the opportunity to insult her first.

Draco leaned against the wall to wait. That was what had made his last encounter with Lovegood so strange— she had tried to warn him, had taken an interest in his welfare. He hadn’t thought much about it since, having been preoccupied with other matters. But now that he considered it, there must have been quite a good reason for Lovegood to bother speaking to him. What had she said? _You shouldn’t be reckless with experimental magic._ The phrase jogged something in Draco’s memory. Experimental magic...hadn’t his father told him something about the Lovegoods, years ago? Lucius had delivered the story over dinner, a familiar sneer on his face. _That crazy woman Lovegood married finally blew herself up, I heard. ‘Testing the boundaries of known magic.’ Ha. She never was the brightest._ Draco had laughed along with him, not quite understanding the joke but eager to join in, to gain a glimpse of his father’s smile.

The thought of Lovegood trying to warn him away from her mother’s fate— as if Draco would ever be so careless— made him sick to his stomach. This was what he reviled about all those so-very-honorable friends of Potter: their weakness. They offered their mercy and their pity without stopping to realize they were the ones who needed it.

But as Draco pondered Lovegood’s obnoxious behavior, a much more interesting thought occurred to him. _Experimental magic._ Whatever spell Draco was under, it couldn’t be found in any book in the library. What if it was something Potter invented, or found— something recorded nowhere but the mind of the Chosen One?

Draco’s pulse quickened. He had learned quite a bit about spell lore in the past year, embroiled in the creation of his own custom magic. The primary rule was this: any spell that could be constructed could be deconstructed. With enough information about a spell, a witch or wizard could work the magic backwards to determine both its construction and its counter-spell. It was a possibility. But Draco had never attempted spell construction in reverse, and he knew it was an entirely different process. A difficult one, even under the best of conditions. It would be better to attempt it— if he even were to attempt it— with guidance. He had had guidance for the process of creating a spell. He had consulted with Mr. Burke at Borgin and Burkes, in theoretical terms of course, and had maintained a secret communication with his uncle Octavian, a more reticent Malfoy whose extensive library of forbidden books proved most useful. There were no such books at Hogwarts, as the school strictly prohibited the teaching of experimental magic, and now, there was no way for Draco to contact anyone outside the school. So Draco needed an expert nearby, someone familiar with experimental magic who would be willing, or could be made to, help him.

His eyes drifted towards the open door of Slughorn’s office. Luna Lovegood was bidding Slughorn a dreamy “good day.” Draco had only moments to think— was this madness? — before the door opened wide and Lovegood strode out, a stack of books in her arms, blonde hair streaming behind her. She saw Draco and her eyes widened momentarily, but she turned quickly away and shouldered past him, chin up.

“Hey, Lovegood,” Draco called, trotting after her. He tried for a neutral tone, but it came out with a bit of a sneer. Lovegood turned, her strange earrings— were those radishes? — wobbling above her shoulders.

“Leave me alone, Malfoy.” For all her ethereal demeanor, she could be quite icy when she needed to.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hex you.” Draco couldn’t resist a swagger, a smirk. He knew he should be humbling himself a bit, but...it was Lovegood.

“What do you want?”

“Actually I want your help.”

Lovegood cocked her head. “Why would I help you? You only try to hurt my friends.”

Draco’s eyebrows jumped at the word friends, and it took a great effort of will not to mock Lovegood for thinking she had friends. Dumbledore’s Army chums, maybe, but could any of them really be her friends? “It’s important,” he said, lowering his voice. It’s about—” He hadn’t thought this through enough. What would Lovegood agree to help with that she would also believe Draco cared about? “ — Snalrups.” He regretted his choice immediately. Lovegood’s face hardened, and she turned away without another word. She thought he was mocking her. Which, if Draco was being honest, was a fair assumption. He knew he should just let her walk away, come up with a better plan. Wait for the day to recycle itself once more. Wade through a few more hours, trying not to think about the clock ticking pointlessly away.

As Lovegood disappeared around the corner, desperation flared in Draco’s chest.

“Wait!” he called, running after Lovegood. She kept going. “Wait, I—” he stopped a few feet behind her. “I’m in over my head, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’ve gotten involved with bad magic. Experimental stuff. I— I’m scared.”

Lovegood stopped. She didn’t turn to face Draco, but she didn’t walk away either. As Draco’s rush of adrenaline faded, he realized what he had just said. What he had just admitted. Well, it didn’t matter, did it? Whatever it took to get Lovegood to help him. Her unorthodox methods were worth a shot, seeing as all of Draco’s more conventional plans had failed, and a pathetic plea for help was his best chance to win her over. So why did he feel like he had just bared something ugly and secret, let it out into the corridor for anyone to see?

“Are you lying?” Lovegood asked. She was still facing away from Draco, but her voice had lost some of its edge.

“No,” Draco breathed, his voice hitching. _Yes,_ he told himself.

Slowly, Lovegood turned. Her expression was impassive, but Draco detected a flicker of something else in her lamp-like eyes. Was it fear, or pity? The thought that Lovegood might pity him made Draco want to taunt her brutally, maybe bring up her dead mother and watch the light fade from her face. But he stifled the urge, reminding himself that this was all in the service of something far more important than a bit of pride.

“Are you working for You-Know-Who?” Lovegood asked, tilting her head slightly to the side, as casually as if she were asking him what kind of pudding he preferred.

Draco swallowed. “I was,” he murmured. He looked over his shoulder, then peered down the empty corridor. He had to really sell this. “I was, but I regret it, okay? I swear, I just want this to end.”

Lovegood considered him for a long moment, her unnerving gaze roving over Draco’s face. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Draco clenched his fists so his nails bit into his palms. “You don’t,” he said, trying to make his voice sound broken. “But I don’t know who else to go to.”

Lovegood was silent for a moment. “I’ll help you,” she said finally. “I have Charms now, but—”

“I need your help now,” Draco said. “We don’t have much time.”

“Oh, are we in danger?”

It amazed Draco how calm she sounded, the lilt of mild curiosity in her voice. She was deeply strange. Damaged. He made another show of looking over his shoulder. “We can’t talk here. I’ll explain everything if you come with me.” It sounded like a trap. He knew it did. If Potter and Granger ever tried to lure him to an undisclosed location under the pretense of needing help he would have laughed in their faces. But Lovegood barely hesitated. She closed the gap between them in a few steps.

“Where are we going?” she asked.


	6. The Lovegood Effect

Out of habit, Draco led Lovegood to the Room of Requirement. He wanted somewhere private, somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard— and somewhere familiar where he could focus. Think. A glance at his pocketwatch told him it was just past eleven. That meant there were nearly thirteen hours until the day reset, which was plenty of time to get what information he could from Lovegood and begin deconstructing the spell he was under. _If_ Lovegood had any useful advice, and _if_ the spell was experimental in nature, and _if_ he had enough information to determine the spell’s nature. But Draco knew he was grasping at straws, and this straw was as good as any.

When they reached the hidden entrance to the Room of Requirement, Draco said,

“All right, you’ve just got to walk in front of this bit of wall three times, and—”

“I know how the Room of Requirement works,” Lovegood said. “I used to come here for DA meetings. Before you broke in with the Inquisitorial Squad.” She said it matter-of-factly, seemingly without reproach.

Draco ground his teeth together. “Yes. Well. This time, think _I want to see the room with the Vanishing Cabinet_.”

Lovegood nodded, pushed past Draco, and began to walk back and forth in front of the blank wall. Moments later the door appeared, and she went straight through without hesitation. Draco remained behind for a moment, surprised. Why was she so trusting? How had she survived so long, trailing about after Potter, if she was willing to accept an enemy’s word that he could be trusted based on a moment of feigned vulnerability?

Inside, Draco found Lovegood examining a glittering bowl of jewels. “They’re probably cursed,” he said.

“Oh, no.” Lovegood reached out and prodded one of the jewels— a bright red one— with her finger. It stirred, rattled— then sprouted wings and began buzzing around the room. “Ruby-beetles,” Lovegood said, watching the creature’s flight with a faint smile. “They’re quite rare.”

“Lovely,” Draco muttered. “So. About my situation.”

“I wonder who would leave a whole brood of Ruby-beetles in here. What is this place? It looks like a maze.”

“I don’t know,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “People dump things here. Things they don’t want to be caught with, I suppose.”

Lovegood nodded. “Secrets. That’s useful. Everyone wants to hide something.”

_And what do you want to hide?_ Draco wondered. Out loud, he said, “I’m sure that’s true. But the reason I brought you here…”

“You said you’ve been doing experimental magic. Is that why you asked me to help you? You heard about my mother?”

Draco hesitated. Should he deny it? He decided that admitting the truth with a hint of shame would be best— another chance to demonstrate his willingness to be honest and vulnerable. “Yes,” he said, looking down at his shoes. “I’m sorry, I know it must be painful for you.”

“I do miss her,” Lovegood said, her gaze steady on Draco’s face. “If she were here, she would want me to help you.” She paused. “I’m not ashamed of her, you know. She was a great witch.”

It took all the self-control Draco had to say, “I’m sure she was.”

“What do you need my help with?”

Draco took a deep breath and explained his situation. Or, a version of it. He told Lovegood that he had gotten mixed up with the Death Eaters (regrettable, but with his parents...he hadn’t known better…), but started to get cold feet. When his aunt Bellatrix discovered that he wanted to back out of his duties, she cursed him to relive the same day over and over again— a curse she herself had invented. (He pinned the crime on Bellatrix because she was unpredictable— the kind of person someone would believe anything of). Draco was rather proud of his performance. He spoke softly and even managed to make his voice tremble just a little. It wasn’t that hard— all he had to do was conjure another version of himself, the desperate and frightened child he had been before he made the Vanishing Cabinet work. When he spoke of the fear of the Dark Lord’s wrath, it didn’t feel all that much like pretending.

Lovegood remained silent for all of Draco’s story. When he finished, she laid a gentle hand on his arm. He tensed.

“Don’t be afraid,” Lovegood said. And for a moment the relief that Draco let show was real, not an act. Someone was going to help him. He wasn’t alone.

For a girl Draco had spent the better part of six years calling “Loony,” Lovegood was surprisingly efficient when she needed to be. She asked Draco for a quill and parchment and sat down at a desk stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. She began drawing, talking to Draco all the while.

“Because everyone else resets when your day begins, we’ll have to find a way to preserve my memories,” she said. “It will take more than one day to work the spell backwards. Have you ever used a Pensieve?”

“No,” Draco said. “How exactly am I supposed to get my hands on one of those?”

“We don’t need an actual Pensieve. You just have to be able to withdraw your memories. Then you can show me, each morning, the accumulation of what we’ve done. So you don’t have to explain your situation every day.”

“How am I going to do that?” Draco asked. “Just walk up to you and say, ‘Excuse me, mind if I shove a memory in your brain’?”

“You could try,” Lovegood said thoughtfully, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm. “But it might be better if you slip the memories into something I’m drinking. Let me see...I had pumpkin juice in the Great Hall this morning. If tomorrow morning is the same, you could use that.”

“Won’t someone notice if I walk up to the Ravenclaw table and pour something in your drink?”

“I’m sure you can find a way.” She was moving her quill in large circles now, and Draco was beginning to wonder if she was just doodling.

“All right, I’ll figure it out. But what can we do today? How do we begin?”

In response, Lovegood set down her quill and held the parchment up for Draco to see. On it was a complicated diagram. In the center was a large circle, and several more trailed away from it in a spiral formation, all attached by snaking lines. Beneath each circle was a series of equations, most of which contained ancient runes. “Do you know what this is?”

Draco nodded. A magical composition chart— he had seen them in some of his uncle’s books. Apparently Lovegood knew it from memory.

“This one is blank. We need to fill in all the information we have.” She looked up at Draco expectantly.

“Er...I didn’t hear the incantation.”

Lovegood frowned. “Do you know color, velocity, and texture?”

“Silver,” Draco said. “It was definitely silver. I think it moved rather slowly— but my sense of time might have been skewed.” Time always did seem to slow in the moments before a spell hit. “What do you mean by texture?”

Lovegood, who had been scribbling while Draco spoke, lifted her quill. “How did it feel when it hit you?”

“Feel? What, is this a robe fitting?” Lovegood just stared at him with those luminous eyes, waiting. Draco sighed. “I don’t remember. I was dazed after it hit me, I couldn’t think straight.”

“Was it cold?”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to remember. It was all so jumbled. There was Snape’s hand gripping his arm, the chill breeze blowing across the castle grounds. The flash of silver light, hitting his back like a spear of ice—

“Yes,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “It was cold, but…”

— the haze that settled over him, and the staticky warmth that had shivered through his body before they apparated away.

“...I also felt something warm. Just for a moment. Like…”

But he couldn’t think of what the feeling was like. He opened his eyes, and found Lovegood watching him.

“I believe the texture of the spell is cold,” she said. “Silver spells are more likely to be on the icy side. The warm feeling might be the caster’s signature.”

“The what?”

“Every person adds something of their own to a spell. In magic lore it’s called a signature. Some people don’t believe in it, but it’s been proven several times.”

_By your loony mother, no doubt,_ Draco thought.

“What does that mean, then?”

“Not much about the spell, but it does mean something about you and your aunt. Signatures are not always possible to feel. They are strongest when there is a connection between the caster and the receiver of the spell. Usually a particularly deep connection.”

“That’s not possible,” Draco said. “Look, if you’re going to start applying your...your ridiculous theories to this—”

Lovegood stood, reaching for her books. “If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave.”

Draco bit back the rest of his retort, and swallowed his anger. He needed Lovegood. “I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Lovegood remained standing for a moment longer, her eyes cold. Then she sat. After a moment, she said, “You know that your aunt created the spell?”

“I— I’m not sure.”

“Hm. It would be better if we knew.”

Draco leaned back against a battered bureau. This was turning into more of a headache than it was worth. Lovegood was spouting nonsense, as he should have expected. If “signatures” were a thing he would have learned about them in his research for the Vanishing Cabinet. Probably. Besides, if Potter was the caster, there would be no signature to detect, unless it was produced by malice. On top of all that, Lovegood’s calculations wouldn’t even be correct if she was relying on the spell’s creator being Bellatrix Lestrange. He wondered if he ought to abandon this plan altogether. But then again, Lovegood had produced a full magical composition chart from memory. Who knew what other information she kept tucked away in that unfathomable head of hers. Perhaps Draco could watch her make her incorrect calculations, memorize the chart, and re-do everything with the correct information.

Draco straightened and strode towards Lovegood, peering over her shoulder to watch her work. He saw his own name scrawled in one circle, and Bellatrix’s in another. “Silver/cold” was written in a third, and “Mind-numbing effects” in a fourth. Another said “Time-repetition effect.” The large circle in the center, the one he was certain was reserved for the incantation, remained blank. Lovegood was working with the equations below Bellatrix’s circle, plugging in strange symbols and performing calculations too quickly for Draco to follow. He had become rather adept at magical theory equations, altering variables and writing out lengthy proofs as he tried again and again to make the Vanishing Cabinet function. But this was different than anything he had done. How long would it take Lovegood to make all her calculations? For Draco to watch, and memorize, and repeat them? He shoved his doubts away, but he couldn’t dispel the heavy, claustrophobic feeling creeping back in.

That night, in the few hours between climbing into bed and the day’s reset, Draco lay paralyzed with that feeling. _Trapped. Trapped. Trapped._ His chest was tight and his breath came quick and shallow.

He had made some progress that day, but not enough. Lovegood had seemed to take it in stride that she was reliving the same day again and again without knowing it, and that none of her actions had any consequences. She skipped the rest of her classes and helped Draco until close to 10 pm.

“It’s done,” she said, looking up from the chart just before an old Grandfather clock began to chime the wrong hour. She had shaken out her hair several times as she worked, a sort of nervous tic, and now it exploded from her head in a riot of pale curls.

“You’ve got the composition?” Draco said, getting up from the desk where he had been sitting idly for hours, staring at nothing, his thoughts moving in pointless circles. “All of it?”

“As much as I can.” Lovegood handed over the chart. “I tried comparing it to spells with similar colors, textures, and effects to fill in what we don’t know.” Under each circle were rows and rows of calculations in her cramped writing, and they trailed onto the back as well. At the end of each equation she had circled the result. Each result, written as a rune, told them some piece of information about the spell’s composition. Some of the runes were familiar to Draco from his own work, and, looking at them, he began to get a sense for the spell’s shape and function— or at least, the shape and function of the imaginary spell created by Aunt Bellatrix.

“Intermediate difficulty,” Draco muttered to himself. “Of the tempus mutatur base.”

“You know spell runes?”

“A little,” Draco said. “Can you tell me how you got to this?”

“I converted your information to variables and used the equations,” Lovegood said breezily, as if this were as easy as casting a hiccuping charm. “The color, velocity, and texture mean it could belong to any of the bases with those characteristics, but when you take into account the spell’s effect, that almost certainly points to the tempus mutatur base, as the purpose is to alter time. I factored your aunt’s signature and conviction in as well. We can only guess her intention, but if her love for you was strong enough, it may have altered the spell to ease its effects or provide an escape route.”

“I doubt that had any influence,” Draco said quickly. “You’ve heard of Bellatrix Lestrange, haven’t you?”

Lovegood tilted her head. “Everyone is capable of love.”

“Hm.” Draco set the chart down on the desk and studied it. It would be impossible to memorize the whole thing, but perhaps just the symbols that resulted...although those were incorrect, at least some of them, and perhaps all of the equations had been tainted by the false information. “So how do we work this backwards, then?”

“That will be more difficult,” Lovegood said. “We shouldn’t start it tonight. I won’t get far enough before midnight. Just be sure you’ve looked at the chart so you can pass the memory along to me tomorrow.”

So they said goodnight— Draco rather awkwardly— and went their separate ways. Draco turned the events of the day over and over in his mind as he lay in bed, but he could see only the many ways his plan could fall apart, and the long weeks— perhaps months— he would be trapped.

_It would go faster if you told her the truth._ The thought lurked in the back of his mind, jutting forward every now and then. He pushed it away each time, but with dwindling ferocity. Maybe it would ruin everything. But maybe it would be his ticket out of the horrible prison Potter’s spell had woven for him. And there was something else, too. A strange and nebulous feeling that rose in him when he thought of confiding everything in Lovegood. It was very similar to the feeling that had caused him to lower his wand again and again when Dumbledore offered him safety, protection, peace. Something like relief. Wouldn’t it feel like an enormous weight lifted off his shoulders to just confide in one person, more than he had confided even in Moaning Myrtle? But what would it mean to do that? Would it mean he was admitting that he was wrong— had been wrong— not just once but a thousand times, again and again?

The prospect was a deep and cavernous hole that threatened to swallow him. Who would he be, on the other side of that hole?

The next morning, he woke from a dream that left a faint crackle of warmth beneath his skin. He closed his eyes again, lingering in the warmth, feeling more alive and soothed than he had in a long time. He grasped at memories of the dream, which returned to him in snatches. He had been a child, running down the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, which seemed never to end, pursued by the patter of another child’s feet, and a burbling laugh. Then he had been in the Room of Requirement, his wand slipping through his fingers and clattering to the floor as a body moved towards his, arms reaching around his waist, that same burbling laugh, deeper and more familiar, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to tingle as lips brushed his…

Draco sat up abruptly, the realization knocking the air out of him. He had dreamed of Potter again. _No. No, no, no._ It didn’t make any sense. He had never dreamed of Potter in this way before the spell, never even remotely thought of him this way. The only feeling his horrid green eyes stirred in Draco’s gut was acid anger. He despised the Boy Who Lived. He pressed his palms into his eyes until it hurt, hoping to push away the dream. But some part of him didn’t want to let go. He had felt such joy, in that moment when he thought he was racing— playing— decorum forgotten, another child’s exuberance matching his own. That wasn’t such a terrible thing to want, was it? It was the childhood he might have had if he were a different child with different parents.

He had never been that carefree. No activity was worth the doing, in the minds of Lucius and Narcissa, if one couldn’t prove oneself to be the best at it. They taught Draco to be above it all, and he was. He sneered when other children wrestled or played or took their brooms out just to turn loop-de-loops in the garden. He was better at Quidditch than all of them, even before he got to Hogwarts. But what did it matter? What had it gotten him? Tripping over himself to prove his worth until he stumbled right into the trap of the Dark Lord. Of V— of You-Know-Who. Dark Mark branded on his arm, suddenly called on to back up all the foolish things he had said.

No, there was nothing wrong with dreaming about being a child. Draco could admit, now, that he wished things had been different. Under the unbearable pressures of the past year, he had fallen through his carefully constructed scaffolding of ego and pride and found himself staring into the face of a scared, pathetic child. It made sense he would dream of a different time, other possibilities.

But why _Potter_? He hadn’t seen the other child’s face, but he knew that laugh. It was the unselfconscious sound Potter made when he was with his friends. It always managed to break out through the noise of the Great Hall or the low murmur of a classroom, and Draco’s head always turned towards it as if pulled by some invisible force. It bothered him. It was too jarring, yes. But there was something more, something he could only recognize now, at his lowest moment. That laugh always sent a prick of loneliness through Draco, reminding him that he was not in on the joke, that his own laugh rarely resounded like that. Even in the Slytherin common room, when all of his friends were drunk on nicked Butterbeer and sprawled across the floor and couches, laughing at nothing and everything— even then he sat upright in his chair, and thought himself better.

Maybe the dream was the ultimate reminder that he was better than no one. What could be more humiliating than to be reminded of all Potter had, and all Draco did not? Especially with a spell from Potter’s own wand bringing Draco lower than he had ever been. Going to Lovegood for help, listening to her nonsense about signatures…

Draco’s thoughts slid to a halt as he recalled the warm, crackling feeling Lovegood had called Potter’s “signature”-- a feeling awfully similar to the one that Draco had felt upon waking from the dream. Could...could the odd dreams have something to do with the fact that he was living and breathing Potter’s spellwork? Just a side-effect, perhaps— a particularly galling one. Draco was relieved at the thought, but also just the tiniest bit disappointed. Thinking of the dream as false made the last remnants of its glow fade rapidly, until the reality of Draco’s situation settled once more around his shoulders. Despite his best efforts, he missed it.

By the time he had dragged himself out of the dormitory, the dream’s effect had faded entirely and he had pushed the memory of it deep into the recesses of his mind. He had more important things to worry about.

But of course, the moment he stepped out into the Entrance Hall, there was Potter, this time on his way to breakfast. The sight of him— his hair uncombed, his bag dangling carelessly from his shoulder— made Draco’s skin crawl. He waited a good thirty seconds after Potter disappeared before following him into the Great Hall.

In the dormitory he had cast a memory extraction charm, pulling the silver thread of the work he had done with Lovegood from his temple and depositing it in a small vial which he held, unstoppered, inside his sleeve. He slipped into the Great Hall with his pointed hat on to cover his silver-blonde hair, hoping no Slytherins would recognize him and beckon him to their table. He crossed to the Ravenclaw table and spied Lovegood almost immediately— between her cloud of hair and the bottlecap necklace that she had used to tie it up, she was difficult to miss.

Relaxing into his usual swagger, he moved towards her, smirking at a few Ravenclaws as he passed. They all glared at him. He had to make this seem casual, the kind of bullying the whole school had come to expect from him. Lovegood was deeply absorbed, not in her breakfast, but in a thick tome with a garish purple cover, which was propped up against a tureen of porridge. There were two or three empty seats on either side of her. Draco sauntered up behind her and dropped his hands down on the table with enough force to make her plate rattle. Lovegood didn’t jump, but she raised her enormous silver eyes to look at him.

“So,” he drawled, squinting and pretending to read over her shoulder. “Your father’s finally written a book, has he? What’s it called, ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Getting Herself Blown Up?’”

The color drained from Lovegood’s face. “Go away, Malfoy,” she said, a faint tremble in her voice.

Draco felt the familiar thrum of blood in his ears that came from a well-placed taunt, from watching his words sink their teeth into someone. But it was not as satisfying as usual. It was play-acting. “Not a bad idea, a book. Maybe he can use the royalties to buy you a proper necklace.” He tugged at the bottle caps in Lovegood’s hair, forcing her to turn her head so he could reach for her goblet with his other hand, tipping the vial with his memory into the pumpkin juice.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” someone said in a high voice. He turned and saw Cho Chang standing up, arms crossed, a few seats away.

Glad for the excuse to leave, Draco let go of Lovegood’s hair and strolled past Chang, tossing her a smirk. “Focus on your Quidditch, Chang. You need all the practice you can get.” Before she could respond he was gone, hurrying away, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Two hours later, Lovegood found him outside the Room of Requirement.

“Ingesting a memory has an odd effect,” she said without preamble. “I thought I dreamed it at first. But I figured it out eventually.”

“You remember everything?” Draco asked.

“I believe so. We’re reliving the same day over and over, you’re the only one who knows it, and I am helping you to undo the spell.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Draco turned towards the blank stretch of wall that led into the Room, ready to conjure the same detritus-filled hall that he had spent so many months in, but Lovegood said,

“I learned something else, too.”

Draco paused. “What?”

“You left some of your emotional residue in your memory. So I can tell you’re lying.” She said it without reproach, as if she were reporting the results of the most recent Quidditch match, but her words struck a chill in Draco’s chest.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Your memory extraction was messy. I don’t know what you’re lying about, but I know you haven’t told me everything. I don’t think I can help you until I know the truth.”

Draco ground his teeth together, glaring at Lovegood. She didn’t quail under his fierce gaze— didn’t even flinch. She just waited.

“How would you know if I told you the truth now? I could just make up another lie.”

“I expect I would find out tomorrow. Besides, I can’t actually unravel a spell without correct information, especially when we have this little to go on.”

She was right. Draco knew she was. But he couldn’t just tell her the truth. He couldn’t. Could he?

“Follow me,” he spat, turning back to the place where the door would appear. _I need the room with the Vanishing Cabinet. I need the room with the Vanishing Cabinet._ He strode back and forth until the door materialized, then went inside, Lovegood at his heels. He moved past the stacks of old desks, past the rattling wardrobe, through heaps and mounds of abandoned things. Without stopping to make sure Lovegood was following he plunged ahead, turned left at the awful bust with the dirty tiara, left again at the mournful music box, right at the taxidermied goblin. He only stopped when he reached the tall, polished cabinet with ornate silver flowers for handles. He turned on his heel, and Lovegood stopped beside him.

“This is a Vanishing Cabinet,” he said. “It was broken, so I fixed the link between this cabinet and one in Borgin and Burkes on Knockturn Alley. I brought Death Eaters into the castle and tried to kill Dumbledore. I failed. Snape killed Dumbledore instead. As we were escaping, Potter cursed me.” He paused, his breath coming ragged and short. “Is that enough for you?”

Lovegood’s face was utterly, eerily still. The silence stretched so long that Draco began to worry she was preparing to attack him. “I’m glad he cursed you,” she said finally, with more feeling than Draco had ever heard in her voice.

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He was supposed to lie to Lovegood, supposed to convince her that he had changed allegiances. But when he finally spoke, that wasn’t what he said.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” His voice came out thick and he looked away, unable to meet Lovegood’s wide, accusing eyes. “I was raised to be a Death Eater. Once the Dark Lord chooses you, you don’t say no.”

"You always have a choice,” Lovegood said.

“No,” Draco spat. “No, you don’t. Not when your father is in Azkaban and is probably safer there than at home. Not when your mother— when your mother is a bargaining chip. If I fail— if I failed, he was going to kill her. Then me, after, so I could watch him do it first.”

Lovegood stood up. “I can’t help you,” she said.

“You’re as self-righteous as Potter!” Draco shouted, unable to keep his rage inside any longer. “All of you— you’re so sure you know what’s right, so sure that the rest of us are vermin under your feet. I didn’t kill Dumbledore. I couldn’t kill Dumbledore.” It was bizarre, spitting out his greatest shame as if it were an asset.

“It’s not about Dumbledore,” Lovegood said, frowning as if Draco were a child, as if he were missing the point entirely. “You don’t feel remorse. I can’t help you if you don’t regret what you’ve done.”

“I told you—”

“Not just trying to kill Dumbledore. Everything that you’ve done.” With that, she turned and strode away into the labyrinth. Draco took a step forward to follow her, to scream at her retreating back, but she disappeared around a bend and all of the fight snuffed out of him. He slumped down against the Vanishing Cabinet and slid to the floor. He was just so very tired. Even this last ditch effort, this desperate plan, had crumbled around him. Of course it had— he had asked Loony Lovegood for help.

Draco decided he would stand up and return to the Slytherin dormitories to begin devising a new plan. But he didn’t move. _I’m glad he cursed you_. Lovegood’s voice echoed in his mind. _You don’t feel remorse._ Draco wanted, bizarrely, to argue that Lovegood was wrong, that she didn’t understand a thing about him. But then he would have to argue that he regretted what he had done, and that wasn’t true. How could he regret accepting the honor of the Dark Lord’s task, regret defending everything his family had taught him was right and true about the world?

But of course, it wasn’t as if Draco had never doubted himself. By halfway through six year, he had stopped caring about Muggleborns and Purebloods, about what side of the war would win. All he cared about was his mother, cowering in Malfoy Manor, and his father, a broken heap in Azkaban.

For a moment after he repaired the Vanishing Cabinet, his doubts had vanished in the flush of success. He had a vision of himself and his parents at Malfoy Manor, restored, kneeling proudly before their master, rising at his right hand. Forget the Ministry, forget throwing money around to secure their place in wizarding society. The Malfoys would never grovel again.

But up on the Astronomy Tower, that triumph had vanished, and there was nothing beneath it but the cavernous hole that had been crumbling away inside him all year. _Draco, you are not a killer._ Draco remembered the words with a sharp twist in his gut— and a flutter of relief. He meant to push that relief away, to remind himself not to be such a coward. But he was simply too tired. It was true that there were some actions, some decisions, that could never be retracted or undone. Maybe some people were killers, and some people were not. If this was true, then all the evidence pointed to Draco not being one.

_You’ll never be a real Malfoy_, the cruel voice in his head sneered. _You’re worthless. Slytherins are killers. Slytherins are survivors. You are nothing._

_Yes, yes, I know,_ Draco thought wearily.

Alone in the Room of Requirement where no one could find him or hear him, when no one was even conscious of the disrupted flow of time except for Draco, he closed his eyes and let himself admit he was glad he hadn’t killed Dumbledore. He didn’t know what that meant, and he couldn’t look at it too closely without panic rising up around the edges. But if some people were killers and some people were not, some part of Draco was glad to know that he wasn’t.

When he finally left the Room of Requirement, Draco’s feet took him not to the Slytherin dormitories but to the second floor bathroom with the out of order sign on the door. He hesitated, not sure why he had come, but the thought of talking to Myrtle eased some of the turmoil in his gut. She had helped him untangle his doubts before. Why not now?

Inside the bathroom Myrtle was not in sight, but Draco could hear a faint tune being hummed in her favorite U-bend.

“Myrtle?” he called. The humming stopped, and moments later a pouting face sprouted from the stall door.

“Draco,” Myrtle said, affecting indifference. “I see you’ve deigned to return.”

Draco sighed. He had forgotten how sulky she could get when he didn’t visit often enough. He opened his mouth to apologize, then closed it again when a thought occurred to him. “Myrtle,” he said. “Have you noticed anything different about...time, recently?”

Myrtle frowned. “Different? Nothing’s ever different, Draco. I lie about my bathroom, all by myself, and no one ever comes to visit me.”

“Do you remember me coming here a few— some time ago. I told you I’d been cursed?”

“Of course I remember,” Myrtle pouted. “But then you rushed away for no reason at all and you never came back.”

“Of course,” Draco muttered. “You’re a ghost. The spell doesn’t work on you like it does on wizards.”

“Oh, I see, you’ve come to remind me how very dead I am, how I can never rejoin the world of the living, never—”

“No, Myrtle,” Draco cut in. “When I told you I’d been cursed, it’s— the same day is repeating over and over again. I’m the only one who’s aware of it. Everyone else’s memory resets at the beginning of the day. But you’re not affected by it. You can remember things.”

“Is that really true?” Myrtle asked, forgetting to be sulky. She let the rest of her body drift through the stall door to hover at Draco’s eye level.

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’ve been trying to escape the enchantment for weeks now. At least, I think it’s been weeks. It’s so difficult to tell.”

“Poor Draco,” Myrtle sighed, all reproach forgotten. “Would you like to cuddle a bit in my U-bend?”

“I— I’m all right, thank you.” Draco strode over to the sinks and leaned his back against one of the porcelain basins, turning to face Myrtle again. “I believe...I believe I’ve messed everything up again.”

“No,” Myrtle simpered, floating over to the sink and leaning her head on Draco’s shoulder. It felt like someone had dunked a cold glass of water on him, but he did his best not to shiver. “Everyone’s against you, Draco. They don’t know you like I do.”

Draco sighed. “I’m not sure you do know me, Myrtle.” His shoulder grew suddenly warm as Myrtle jerked her head away.

“Oh really? Is there anyone else you talk to, then? Anyone else you come crying to when you’re so afraid—?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Draco stared down at his Oxfords, at the wet tiles beneath them reflecting the harsh lights from the ceiling. “I talk to you more than anyone. But I haven’t told you everything.”

“Well, of course you haven’t. Always so secretive, so important.” Her voice was laced with a mixture of resentment and pride.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore if you knew the truth.” A distant voice in Draco’s mind screamed at him to stop talking. But something had shifted inside him. He knew Myrtle idolized him, doted on him. He had to know what would happen if he told her. He had to see her face when she learned the truth.

It shouldn’t matter to him, what the ghost of a Muggle-born killed fifty years ago thought. It shouldn’t matter to him what anyone thought besides the Dark Lord— not Severus Snape, not his parents, not Crabbe or Goyle or Pansy or Luna Lovegood. But it mattered. The realization that it mattered, like the realization that he did not want to be a killer, was hard to look directly at. It swirled with potentials he was not yet ready to face.

“I would never stop wanting to talk to you,” Myrtle insisted, dropping her eyes to her clasped hands and smiling coquettishly. “You should know that, Draco.”

Draco waited until her eyes found his face again, and he forced himself to meet them. He wasn’t sure what color they had been when she was alive, but now they were a bright, attentive gray.

“I’m a Death Eater,” he said. “I’ve been working for You-Know-Who. Tom Riddle.”

For a moment Myrtle’s face remained suspended in its smile, like a photograph before it was dropped in the solution that made it move. Then the smile slipped, and her eyebrows drew in, confused. She floated slowly backwards, away from Draco.

“Draco,” she said softly, her voice shaking. “What— what are you saying?”

“I’ve done...I’ve done bad things.”

For once in her death, Moaning Myrtle had nothing to say. She hesitated, lip trembling, then flew into the air and dove into one of the toilets without so much as a whimper.

Draco turned on his heel and half ran, half stumbled out of the bathroom. In the corridor he pulled himself under control, forcing himself to walk in some semblance of his normal stride, but he knew he was failing. His breath was thick and ragged. _Pull yourself together._

When he reached the end of the corridor, Draco turned and, by the afternoon light streaming in through the high, arched windows, he saw water seeping out from under the bathroom floor. Myrtle wouldn’t forget. Everything else Draco had done since falling under Potter’s enchantment had been erased, or soon would be. But not this.

He barely made it back to the Slytherin dormitory before the sobs began to heave their way out of him. His whole body convulsed and his vision blurred with tears. _I’ve done bad things. I’ve done bad and terrible things._ Madam Rosmerta, face blank under his Imperius. Katie Bell, jumping at small noises when she returned from St. Mungo’s. She was a damn good catcher, Bell. When Draco learned that it was Bell Rosmerta had found to carry the necklace to Dumbledore, he had thought, wildly, of her long ponytail streaking behind her, the Quaffle tucked under her arm.

Draco found himself remembering the first time he had ever used the word “Mudblood” outside of the close-knit circle of his parents’ friends. It was at Hogwarts, in his first year. Justin Finch-Fletchley had been bragging loudly about his acceptance to some place called “Eton” during double Transfiguration, and Pansy had turned to Draco to whisper that Eton was a Muggle school. When McGonagall had her back turned, Draco leaned across the desks and hissed, “Hey, Mudblood!” There was more he intended to say— something about why didn’t he just go to that Muggle school if it was so very important— but before he could get another word out McGonagall had whipped around and clamped a hand on Draco’s upper arm.

“Out, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “I will not tolerate that kind of language in my classroom. Take your things. _Out._”

Draco had covered his shock with disdain and left to a smattering of giggles. Justin Finch-Fletchley just looked confused. But secretly, Draco was surprised and stung. Embarrassed, even. No one had ever reacted that way when he used that word. He knew it wasn’t polite, of course, but there wasn’t anything wrong with it, was there? Some wizards belonged, and some didn’t. Everyone knew that.

Now, he saw himself as McGonagall had seen him that day. She was a great witch, even his father conceded this. _If she could shake off a bit of Dumbledore’s influence she’d be a fine teacher._ A great witch, a brave one, even, and she had looked at Draco like he was a pet who had gone suddenly rabid and savaged the neighbor’s cat.

If he had been wrong— if he had been wrong that day, if he had been wrong every day after, if he had been not just a bully, not just cruel, but on the _wrong side_—

Coldness crept through his limbs and he sank onto the bed. It was a coldness not unlike the one that descended on Malfoy Manor in the moments before the Dark Lord arrived, a coldness brought on not by magic but by the shared knowledge that he would soon be there.

Draco had begun to doubt his family’s allegiances the first time he stood in the presence of the resurrected Dark Lord, the summer before sixth year. Until then, only his parents had seen and spoken to their master. But now, his father was in Azkaban, and his mother could shield him no longer. Standing near the Dark Lord was not so very different from standing near a Dementor. Those cruel eyes passed over him— through him— like he was nothing. That was the night the Dark Lord came and tortured Narcissa on the ballroom floor until she screamed and tore her robes with her hands. Draco wept and moaned like a child and begged the Dark Lord for mercy.

_You’re loyal,_ the Dark Lord said, turning to Draco when he was finally finished with his mother. _I value loyalty, Draco Malfoy._ Draco had wanted to turn away from those blood-tinged eyes, from the slash of a smile. He had wanted to grab his mother and run as far as they could. But he forced himself to stay. _You are not a pathetic child, Draco Malfoy,_ said the voice in his head. The voice that was a little like his father, but mostly his own. _Greatness has a price. You are a Slytherin._ He had felt his mother’s eyes on him as he rose to his feet, as he bent into a stiff bow and lifted his head to meet the Dark Lord’s eyes.

Draco lurched to his feet again and began to pace the empty dormitory, wanting to tear at his skin to escape. It felt like a hippogriff was tearing at his insides, shredding something vital. A sick, miserable feeling oozed from the wounds, filling him until his whole body was heavy with it. This was not something he could run from, not something he could deflect away, not something he could even ignore. It crowded his vision, filling his mind with a parade of images, his head with a deluge of voices. _You filthy Mudblood...I shouldn’t have to remind you who your family is, Draco...Malfoys don’t admit defeat...I’m glad he cursed you_. Dumbledore, leaning against the ramparts. _It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now._ He should have taken it. The shining, impossible hand extended to him in his darkest moment. He should have taken it.

A glimmer of relief bloomed in the midst of Draco’s torment. He should have taken it-- and he still could.


	7. Unlikely Places

The next day, he fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. He waited, skin feverish with anticipation, as the hours ticked by. What if the Carrows knew, the moment they stepped into the Room of Requirement, what was going through Draco’s head? What if Greyback smelled his betrayal?

Rosmerta gave the signal. Dumbledore had left the castle. 

The events of the familiar evening passed in a daze. Draco felt he was playing his part by rote, but no one seemed to notice. They exalted in their trespass, defiling whatever they could. Greyback slashed a portrait with his long, yellow nails. Alecto Carrow cackled and shot a curse at Mrs. Norris, and the cat turned tail and fled.

Draco reached the tower first, as always. There was Dumbledore. Draco raised his wand, just to be sure Dumbledore knew his intention, knew what he had been asked to do. Then, he lowered it.

“Please,” he said. “Help me.”

When he woke in his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, he felt his heart break. He had thought, for a shining moment, that he found the answer, that Potter had cursed him to guarantee his surrender. Surrender, and he would be free.

But he wasn’t. Everything that had happened the night before was gone in smoke. It didn’t matter that Dumbledore had summoned Draco to his side, had flicked his wand at empty air and bid Harry Potter to emerge from his Invisibility Cloak. That he had whispered, urgently, of the Order headquarters, dismissing Potter’s protests with a twitch of his withered hand. That he had said,  _ we’ll send someone for your mother, before he knows _ .

It didn’t matter because the day reset before he arrived. Because the spell wasn’t broken.

Another stream of unchanging days passed in a fog. Draco would have no way, later, of calculating how many sunrises he had allowed to slip by in his depression, but it meant he finally lost track completely of how much time had passed since Potter had cursed him. 

It was hunger that finally dragged him out of bed. A tiny, petulant will to live that urged him forward against his will. He went to the Great Hall in his pajamas and stuffed himself with eggs and sausage, toast and pumpkin juice. Potter walked past him with an incredulous expression on his face. Draco could feel the eyes of the entire hall on him, but, blissfully, felt nothing. 

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. 

“Draco,” said Severus Snape. “I think you had better come with me.”

Draco set down his fork and got to his feet, following his professor out of the Great Hall. The moment they were out of earshot of the rest of the school, Snape turned on him.

“What has happened to you, Draco?” Each word was perfectly crisp though he barely spoke above a whisper.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Draco said dully. It didn’t matter what he said.

“I know you face an insurmountable task, but I have offered you my assistance a thousand times. I thought you would take me up on my offer before you let yourself descend into... _ this _ .” He waved his wand hand at Draco’s rumpled clothes and ungroomed hair. Snape’s face remained hard and impassive, just the hint of a sneer around his thin lips, but Draco thought he detected a flicker of something else in his voice. Hurt, maybe. 

“I would have come to you if I could,” Draco said, speaking as though Snape knew what he did, as if they were both standing on the other side of the night when everything had finally come to a head. “I did want your help. I got it in the end.”

Snape looked at him as though he had lost his mind. Draco kept talking. 

“You shouldn’t have done it. He— he wanted to keep me from doing something I could never undo. He did. But you...I can’t believe you did it.”

Snape’s eyes widened fractionally, and he took a half step away from Draco. Then, straightening his shoulders, he said in his chilliest voice, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Neither do I,” Draco sighed. He turned to walk away from Snape, knowing his professor wouldn’t follow him. Draco had frightened him. Perhaps Snape knew something of what was to come, had guessed it, and thought Draco had taken a sudden interest in Divination.

He had every intention of returning to his bed and waiting until hunger forced him out of it again. But he caught a glimpse of the Great Hall, and stopped. Peering in, he could just make out a buoyant mass of blonde curls at the Ravenclaw table.

Before he had time to change his mind, Draco strode back into the hall, the sash of his dressing gown trailing on the flagstones. Eyes followed him, and mutters and barely muffled laughs. He briefly wondered if this was how Potter felt every time he entered the Great Hall. It didn’t faze Draco, but then again, he was in a state beyond being fazed. He strode straight down the hall and stopped at the Ravenclaw table.

“Lovegood,” he said, and the blonde head lifted, emerging from the purple book. Lovegood’s face hardened slightly.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she asked in that high, airy voice.

“I need to talk to you. Will you come with me?”

“Don’t go with him, Luna,” someone said from farther down the table. Cho Chang, again. Draco didn’t even spare her a glance. 

“I need your help,” he said. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

Lovegood stared into his face for a long time, her silvery eyes searching. He let himself be searched.

“Okay,” she said, after a long silence. She got to her feet.

“Luna—”

“It’s okay,” Lovegood said to Chang. “I’ll be alright.”

They left the Great Hall side by side, under the eyes of the entire school.  _ Something very strange is happening at Hogwarts _ , Draco thought to himself, almost amused.  _ But they haven’t got the slightest idea _ . 

He took her to the Room of Requirement, but he didn’t bring her inside. He stopped in front of the blank stretch of wall and turned to look at her.

“You know about experimental magic,” he said. It wasn’t a question, and Lovegood didn’t react. “I’m trapped in an experimental spell right now. At least, I assume it’s experimental. It doesn’t exist in any book in the school and no one that I’ve managed to ask has any idea what it might be.”

“Why do you need my help?” Lovegood asked. “I’m not very experienced.”

“You’ll listen to me,” Draco said. “I know you will. I— I have to tell you some things. Things I’ve done. But if you’ll just listen, I promise...I regret it. I really do.”

“Okay,” Lovegood said. “Are we going to go into the Room of Requirement?”

“Er— yes,” Draco said. “Yes, why not.”

He led them, once more, to the Vanishing Cabinet. Pausing in front of it, his back to Lovegood, he reached out and ran his thumb over the flower pattern of the silver handle.

“I’ve been cursed,” he said, “to live the same day over and over again. Potter’s the one who cursed me, and I deserved it. I deserved it, but I need to undo it. If I don’t escape…” his voice faltered. “I just need it to end.”

For a moment, Lovegood was silent. Then, she said, “I didn’t think you would ever admit to deserving something Harry did to you.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Yes, well. Neither did I.” He turned, meeting Lovegood’s placid gaze just as he had met Myrtle’s all those days ago. “I’ve done some horrible things,” he said. “I have to tell you.”

“Yes,” Lovegood said. “But you feel remorse?”

“I...yeah, I suppose I do.”

Lovegood looked around, and turned towards an armchair that Draco was certain hadn’t been there before. She pulled it closer and sat down, then looked expectantly up at Draco. He glanced away just as a straight backed wooden chair materialized at his side. He swallowed, and sat down.

“Tell me what you’ve done,” Lovegood said lightly. 

It didn’t come easily. He couldn’t spit it out this time, defensive and bitter. He couldn’t even muster the same numbness that had helped him confess to Myrtle. Instead, the story came out in fits and starts. He stumbled over his words, and more than once had to stop and wait for the lump in his throat to ease before he could continue. Lovegood wasn’t an easy audience. Her gaze never wavered from Draco’s face, and when he spoke of his attempts to kill Dumbledore, of hurting Katie Bell and of letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, her face grew hard and her eyes gained a steely gleam.

But she let him finish, and when he had, she didn’t run away.

“You did deserve to be cursed,” she said, after a long, almost unbearable silence. “I’m glad he cursed you.”

_ I’m glad he cursed you _ . For a moment, the dark, swirling tide that had kept Draco pinned to his bed for so long threatened to engulf him again. But Lovegood wasn’t done.

“I think Harry used this spell for a reason. He’s not always very logical, but he can be wise, you know.”

Draco tried to smile, but he was sure it came off as more of a pained grimace.

“If I help you,” Lovegood went on. “Will you help us fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

Draco looked down at his hands. He had known it would come to this. There was no middle ground here, no world in which he could escape from the Dark Lord into anonymity. The hand of mercy outstretched to him was conditional.

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the uncomfortable prickle in his gut. It felt like a lie. But Lovegood seemed to take him at his word.

“Where should we begin, then?” she asked.

“I— yes. Er, thank you. That is. I thought we could start by deconstructing the spell to find a counterspell.”

Lovegood cocked her head. “I don’t see why we have to do that.”

“You— you don’t?”

“You believe the spell Harry used on you was experimental, which means he invented it or found it somewhere. If he’s meant to use it on you tonight, then I’m sure he already knows about it. We just need to ask him.”

Draco sputtered. “No. That’s impossible. We can’t— he would never  _ tell _ me—”

“He might tell me,” Lovegood said.

Draco knew she was right. It was the simplest plan, the shortest route from point a to point b. It was so bloody obvious he should have tried Confunding Potter and getting the information himself. But he hadn’t, and there was a reason for that. He wasn’t entirely sure that the reason was based in logic, but there was a reason. He just  _ couldn’t _ .

“No,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Absolutely not.”

Lovegood tilted her head again, but she seemed to sense that Draco was deadly serious. 

“We could ask someone else,” she said. “Someone who spends a lot of time with him.”

“ _ Not  _ Granger or Weasley,” Draco said. “They’d never spill anything anyway. They’re too bloody loyal.”

“I wasn’t thinking of them,” Lovegood said. “At least, not the Weasley you mean.”

“No Weasleys.”

At first, Draco thought Lovegood was going to argue. But, to his surprise, she acquiesced.

“I think that rules out everyone useful. So we’ll have to do a deconstruction then.”

Draco swallowed. “I— thank you, Lovegood.”

The Ravenclaw regarded him silently for a moment, in a way that made it hard to tell if she was actually focusing on him, or something only she could see. 

“I’ll need some parchment,” she said after a while.

The day after Draco confessed to Lovegood, he restored her memory via pumpkin juice and met her at the Room of Requirement to begin working to unravel the nature of the spell, re-doing the work she had done back when Draco was lying to her (a period of time he had decided to let her forget) with correct information. By the evening she had come to a few crucial conclusions.

“It’s a  _ tempus mutatur _ spell,” she said, showing Draco the newly completed chart. “I’m positive it’s invented, not Ministry registered. I believe Harry’s signature has some influence. Powerful dislike can increase the effects of a spell and even create side effects. Have you had any strange dreams recently?”

“No,” Draco said too quickly. “I haven’t had any dreams.” But he was secretly relieved to know that the dreams were, indeed, a galling bit of spellwork and not an omen of his inner desires. 

“I am curious,” Lovegood went on. “Why would Harry use an experimental spell? He never showed an interest in theoretical magic, or excelled at it.”

Draco smirked. “There are many things Potter never excelled in, yet nevertheless does.”

Luna ignored the insult. “Perhaps he didn’t create the spell. Perhaps he found it.”

“Would that change your calculations?”

“Yes. I think I’ll have to make two deconstructions— one that considers Harry the creator of the spell, and another that only considers him the caster. We can work both backwards to a counterspell and see if either works.”

“Won’t that take longer?”

“Yes, but I believe we have the time.”

Draco frowned. He knew it was his own fault that they were attempting this lengthier process. He wanted nothing more than to finally escape the spell in which Potter had him imprisoned. But the thought of bringing anyone else in on his secret— especially someone closer to Potter— was unthinkable. Just the idea of it made him feel as though the bottom had fallen out of his stomach. 

“Are you afraid?” Lovegood asked, and Draco’s head jerked up. He realized that he had been frowning down at the chart, and that Lovegood had been watching him.

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of asking other people for help. They won’t say no. Friends don’t turn away their friends.”

“Well, unfortunately, no one close to Potter is my friend, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“They’re my friends,” Lovegood said. “You really should have thought about joining Dumbledore’s Army instead of breaking up our meetings.”

“I get that you have friends,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “But they’re all under this enchantment just like us. And no offense, but I don’t exactly think they’re going to be quite as ready to hear what I have to say as you were.”

“They’d listen to me,” Lovegood said. 

Privately, Draco doubted this. But he couldn’t think of a tactful way of expressing this doubt. 

“Why not Hermione?” she asked.

“We’re not speaking to Granger,” Draco said forcefully. “You really think Little Miss Prefect is going to—”

“You really don’t know Hermione very well, do you?” Lovegood asked.

“I make a point of it.”

Luna sighed. “We don’t have to talk to her. I think Ginny would be best. She’s closer to Hermione and might know more than I do, but she might have an easier time not telling Harry.”

“I thought those two were ‘an item,’” Draco said, layering as much venom as he could into the last two words.

“They’ve been seeing each other, but I’m not sure how well it’s going. Ginny’s really very busy right now.”

“I just don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“If it doesn’t work, you don’t have to restore her memory. She’ll go to sleep and forget anything we told her.”

Draco sighed. Why wasn’t that convenient solution more comforting to him? 

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered. “I’m going to take a walk.” 

He got up from the velvet armchair the Room of Requirement had provided for him and strode off into the towering stacks of detritus. The room grew shadowier the farther he got from the lanterns that had sprouted over their workspace, and he had to be careful not to knock into a precarious pile or trip over a tattered rug. Though he had come to be quite comfortable in the little corner he and Luna had domesticated for themselves while they worked, the rest of this version of the Room of Requirement was cold and dank and filled with the lingering imprint of his past self. A gloom settled over him as he moved between bookshelves lined with skulls and mounds of burnt and tattered curtains. Time seemed thin as paper, as if he could tear it with one careless step and find himself moving through these pathways with purpose, hands trembling, looking for the old, battered cabinet that would either save or destroy him. He felt unreal.

Draco turned a corner and found himself standing behind his green velvet armchair, staring down at Luna, who was sketching something at her desk. He whirled around and found himself facing a row of vandalized desks with no room to move between them. 

“How—?” he began.

“You’re in the Room of Requirement,” Lovegood said, not looking up from her drawing.

Draco scowled, and strode off again. This time he paid attention to where he turned, seeking out familiar landmarks. There was the taxidermied cat where he had always turned left on his way out of the room, there the marble statue of a two-headed centaur where he hid on one of the occasions when Professor Trelawney invaded the room to hide her sherry bottles. If his memory was correct, he was close to the place where someone had stored an old baby’s crib with a mobile that sang in Mermish. He peered around the corner to be sure, took a step forward, and found himself right back where he started.

“Merlin’s pants!” he cursed. “The room has to be malfunctioning.”

“It’s not,” Lovegood said calmly. “What you need is not always the same as what you want.”

Draco clenched his teeth, fighting the boiling urge to slap Lovegood across the face. What did she know about what he needed? What did the bloody Room of Requirement know about what he needed? He had to get out of here, had to get some space, but he couldn’t  _ leave _ . 

“Fine,” he muttered, sinking into the armchair. He would just sit there until the room decided it was done punishing him.

“You might want to listen to what it’s trying to tell you,” Lovegood said, utterly oblivious to Draco’s rage.

“I’m not a child,” Draco spat. “I don’t need to be—  _ shepherded _ around by a bit of castle-magic.” 

“ _ Ancient _ castle-magic,” Lovegood added, as if this made it any better.

“Well, what is it I’m supposed to do, then? Tell you I’m fine telling Ginny Weasley, the girlfriend of the boy who’s cursed me, everything about my situation?”

“It’s probably not as straightforward as that.”

“Well then what is it? Because I’m not exactly keen on sitting here until the day resets.”

“Why don’t you want to tell Ginny?”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again. He wanted to yell, to rage, to tear Lovegood to pieces with sarcasm so vicious even she couldn’t remain immune to it. Instead he took a long breath and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The sharp pressure relieved some of the hot bile building inside of him. 

He knew why he didn’t want to tell Ginny. It was the same reason he was terrified of actually escaping Potter’s enchantment. He would be opening himself to be judged by someone good and brave and true and all of that heroic nonsense, and he knew he would fall short. Not just fall short, but reveal himself to be entirely unworthy. Of safety, of friendship, of family. Of his own life. 

For a moment he was tempted to pity himself, but an inconvenient voice in his head reminded him,  _ You tried to take away their safety and friendship and family. Their lives _ .

That was what he was afraid of. Looking into the face of what he had done. Would he be human when he came out the other side? Would he be alive?

“Why won’t the room let me leave, Luna?” Draco asked, his voice breaking on her name. He had never said it before, just her first name. It felt strange.

“You don’t get to take the easy way out.” Her voice was so very un-Luna-ish that Draco raised his head. She was looking straight at him, her silvery eyes burning in the lamplight. For the first time Draco saw past her tumble of unkempt hair, her bottlecap necklace, her waifish features. He saw the firm set of her jaw, and the faint, nearly invisible lines at the corners of her lips. They weren’t smile lines. 

Sitting across from her, Draco felt impossibly small. But for once, this was a relief. He was not the smartest or the bravest or the best. In fact, he was, and had been for all of his life, a pampered coward. But now he was here, trapped in the Room of Requirement with Luna Lovegood, and he was pathetically grateful not to be alone.

Draco let out a shaky breath.

“We can tell the Weasley girl,” he said softly. “We can tell her tomorrow.”

It was no great secret that Draco used cruelty and bravado to hide his weaknesses. The more confident he seemed, the more frightened he really was. He knew this about himself, his parents knew it, Professor Snape knew it. Only Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle really seemed to be fooled. 

Luna Lovegood most certainly knew it. 

“It’s about time,” Draco drawled when she finally came skipping down the corridor towards where he stood outside of the Room of Requirement. They had agreed to meet here as soon as her memory returned. “I thought you’d gotten distracted by a nargle or something.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Luna said, coming to a stop beside him. “Ginny’s very smart. And she has a very clear mind. She doesn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of her judgement.”

_ It’s a little rich, you deciding who’s clear-minded, don’t you think? _ Draco stopped himself from saying. He felt a bit guilty for even thinking it. 

“I’m not worried about her judgement,” he snapped instead. “I’m worried she’ll be in Potions before we get to her. Now come on.”

The day before, Luna had mapped out Ginny’s schedule to determine the best moment for them to ambush her. 

“She’ll have Care of Magical Creatures in the morning, so she’ll be out of the castle early. There’s no point trying to find her before that. She’s always running late. But she has a free period between Care of Magical Creatures and Potions. She used to spend it on the Quidditch pitch, but now that OWLS are so close she’s usually studying in the Gryffindor common room.”

“You seem to have a very detailed knowledge of Weasley’s schedule,” Draco said. To his surprise, Luna  _ blushed _ . He had never seen her blush, and hadn’t really thought she was capable of it. It was disconcerting. 

“Yes, we should try to find her during her free period,” Luna went on, as if Draco hadn’t spoken. 

“How exactly are we going to get into the Gryffindor common room? Even if we knew the password, it would be crawling with...well,  _ Gryffindors _ .”

“We can catch up with her before she gets there. The Entrance Hall is too crowded...maybe we can wait in the corridor by the third moving staircase? Next to that portrait of the girl picking daisies?”

Either Luna had a highly precise knowledge of the portraits and staircases of Hogwarts, or she had waited in that spot before, perhaps in order to casually ambush a certain redheaded jock on her way back from Quidditch practice. Interesting.

Now, as they waited beside the portrait of the girl picking daisies, Draco hoped Luna hadn’t suggested involving Ginny just because she had a crush on her. Nothing like a good crush to confuse one’s judgement and lead to a truly colossal mistake. A short Hufflepuff walked past, his eyes sliding over Draco and Luna standing next to each other in the otherwise abandoned hallway. Draco hurriedly pretended to dig around in his bag while Luna waved at the Hufflepuff, unconcerned.

“Maybe we should stand farther apart,” Draco said when the Hufflepuff had passed. “Won’t it seems suspicious if we’re...you know, spending time together?” He had regained a bit of his dignity since his pajama incident, and he didn’t care to draw too much attention.

Luna’s eyes fixed on something over Draco’s shoulder.

“We don’t have to worry,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

Draco turned and saw a bright red ponytail bobbing up the stairs at the end of the hall. He swallowed. “Lead the way.” 

Luna went after Ginny first, as discussed. (Draco alternated between calling the Weasley girl by her first and last name in his head, as the former felt bizarre but the latter was confusing, given her plethora of siblings). Luna waved to her friend, and Ginny stopped on the stairs to say hi. Draco couldn’t hear their words, but he could tell from Ginny’s smile that they hadn’t gotten around to the bombshell yet. 

He saw it the moment it happened. Luna said something, leaning in close (perhaps closer than was strictly necessary), and Ginny’s grin slid off her face. Her freckled forehead knitted together, and she looked around her to make sure there was no one close enough to hear. Her eyes fell on Draco, and she froze. Draco froze too, unsure if he should wave or scowl or look contrite. Even from several meters away, Weasley’s brown eyes had the intensity of a Hippogriff. Should Draco bow?

But Luna kept talking, and Ginny’s eyes slid back to Luna. They talked a little while longer, heads bent together, and then, when Draco thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, Luna glanced back at him with a small smile. Draco swallowed again. Before he had time to process what was happening, the two girls were walking towards him, Luna beaming and Ginny frowning. It was a thunderous frown, difficult to look directly at, but Draco thought that maybe— just maybe— she looked more concerned than angry. 

“Malfoy,” Ginny said when she reached him.

“Weasley,” Draco said, as smoothly as he could. He shoved his trembling hands in the pockets of his robes. 

“So it’s true. You are a Death Eater?”

“I was.”

Ginny laughed humorlessly. “Harry was right. Wow. We all thought he was losing it. I mean it would make sense. It’s stressful, being the Chosen One and all. But wow. You really were up to something.”

“It’s true,” Draco said . “I was a Death Eater and I was planning to kill Dumbledore. On the Dark Lord’s orders.”

“And now you expect me to believe you’ve gone over to our side and want a do-over?”

“I don’t expect you to trust  _ me _ ,” Draco said, glancing at Luna. Ginny followed his gaze. Her frown softened slightly.

“You trust him, Luna? About everything? The curse, that we’re all living the same day over and over again?”

“Yes,” Luna said. Her silver eyes held Ginny’s brown ones for a moment. Then Ginny turned back to Draco.

“Well, Luna’s always been a good judge of character. Just so you know, if I help you— I’m doing it for her, not for you.”

“Understood,” Draco said, as Luna positively beamed. 

They sought out a quieter place to talk, and ended up in an empty classroom. They pulled three desks into a circle and Ginny cast a flawless lantern charm with a lazy flick of her wand. Draco had never paid much attention to the youngest Weasley before, but maybe he should have. She had mastered nonverbal spells before completing her OWLS?

“So,” Ginny said. “What is it exactly that you need from me?”

Draco opened his mouth, and found he had no idea where to begin. He glanced at Luna.

“We think that Harry used an experimental spell on Draco. He probably found it somewhere. We thought you might know something about it.”

Ginny grimaced. “Well, you weren’t wrong. Would something scrawled in the margins of a potions book count as an experimental spell?”

“Yes,” Luna said, and Draco leaned forward. He hadn’t expected them to hit on something this quickly. Perhaps involving Weasley hadn’t been such a terribly bad idea.

“Harry’s got this book,” Ginny said. “It’s a used potions book that someone wrote all over. It’s potions instructions mostly.”

“I knew he wasn’t actually that good,” Draco blurted. “Not that that’s what’s important right now,” he added, seeing Luna’s face.

“Well, he isn’t,” Ginny said with a shrug. “But I think there are some spells written in there too. Actually…” she darted a glance at Draco. “I think you might have gotten the wrong end of one of them, before this. He didn’t mean it— he didn’t know what it did.”

Draco stared at her blankly for a moment. The wrong end of…? Understanding trickled in slowly. He remembered the blaze of pain across his chest, a deep, wounding feeling like nothing he had ever felt before. The water on the bathroom floor soaking slowly through his shirt, mingling with hot blood. He swallowed.

“He...didn’t know?” His voice came out a little gruff.

Ginny shook her head. “Actually, he hid the book after what happened. I think Snape was after it, he figured it out somehow. And Harry was spooked. I was surprised it took that long. I swear, you’d think a guy who spends half his life fighting evil wizards would be able to recognize a dark object when he sees one.” 

“Would he have used another spell from the book?” Luna asked. “After what happened to Draco.”

Ginny shrugged. “Harry doesn’t always think things through all the way.” Her voice was light, but Draco thought he detected a sharper note beneath, something more complicated. The corner of his mouth twitched. Complicated feelings towards Potter— that, he could understand.

“Do you have any idea where the book is?” Draco asked. 

“I don’t know the whole story,” she said. “Ron and Hermione would.” Her tone was flat, but Draco wondered if this bothered her, that her boyfriend shared so little with her. That his inseparable little trio came first. 

“Where could he have hidden it?” Luna mused. “In his dormitory?”

“No,” Ginny said. “Somewhere else. I mean, he knows the book’s dodgy. He knows he shouldn’t have it.”

“Somewhere else?” Draco said. “But where? It’s not like there’s some secret place for students to bury their contraband whenever—”

He stopped. Because, of course, there  _ was _ such a place. He’d spent his entire year there, hiding his own contraband, and now he spent every day there with Luna, wondering how in the name of Merlin he was going to break the curse. The answer had been under his nose the whole time.

“What?” Ginny said, her eyes narrowing. “Do you know where it is?”

“I think I do,” Draco said.

He had thought they’d be done with Weasley once they had gotten their information, but she insisted on tagging along to the Room of Requirement. 

“Now you’ve gotten me involved,” she said. “I want to see how this ends.”

Luna had no problem with this at all, and Draco couldn’t think of a proper excuse to get rid of her.

“Fine,” he said. He didn’t really want to invite yet more people into the version of the Room of Requirement where the proof of his past evils were hidden, but, he assured himself, he could simply forget to restore Ginny’s memory the next day.

The three of them hurried down corridors and up staircases, ducking out of sight whenever someone was nearby. Most of the students were still in class, thankfully, but Draco didn’t want to risk the three of them being seen together. It was just too suspicious, too obviously wrong. When they reached the stretch of wall that led to the Room of Requirement, Ginny’s eyes widened.

“Of course,” she said. “Of bloody course.” 

They entered one by one, using the mantra Draco told them.  _ I want to see the room with the Vanishing Cabinet _ . There had to be other ways to enter, but this was the one Draco knew would work, the tried-and-true method. If the phrase confused Ginny, she didn’t let on.

Draco went first, and Luna joined him soon after. When Ginny stepped through the door, she looked around appraisingly at the stacks of junk and debris. A dozen pathways led off in different directions, twisting away into the impossibly large room.

“I’m assuming ‘accio’ doesn’t work here. That would be too easy, right?” She gave her wand another lazy flick, and nothing moved. Then she pointed it at a moldering shoe on the ground and said, “Accio shoe.” The shoe didn’t so much as twitch. She looked to Draco, as if expecting him to come up with some sort of alternative plan. But Draco’s confidence was fading. Hogwarts was a big castle. Enormous. Who said there weren’t dozens of places where a student could safely hide a defaced textbook? What had made him think that he and Potter, when confronted with a similar quandary, would come to the same place? 

“We’ll just have to look,” Luna said brightly, interrupting Draco’s spiraling thoughts. “It’s probably not too far from the entrance. Harry was probably in a hurry to hide it.”

“That’s true,” Ginny said. “Why don’t we split up? We can each take a pathway. The ones he’d be most likely to take.”

“So, the three most obvious pathways,” Draco said. He meant it as a dig about Potter’s carelessness, but Ginny nodded. 

“Luna, why don’t you take that one right there—” she pointed to the path directly across from the entrance— “and I’ll take the one to the left. Draco, you can go to the right.”

“Fine,” Draco said. It seemed as good a plan as any. He glanced at Luna’s encouraging smile, and tried not to feel he was embarking on yet another wild goose chase.

The path to the right of the entrance was one Draco had never been down before. He had really only ever taken a few paths, leaving the majority of the cavernous room unexplored. He wondered if anyone ever entered this room without a pressing and furtive purpose, if anyone ever just  _ explored _ it. Probably not. 

Draco searched everything he passed. He opened every drawer and cabinet in a blood-stained armoire, wand at the ready in case anything unpleasant jumped out, and found only an old pair of socks and what looked suspiciously like a house elf’s disembodied ear. He sorted through a stack of paintings that cursed loudly at him, and even checked behind a chandelier that whispered to him in a language he couldn’t understand. He was working up the courage to stick his hand in between the cushions of a very ugly sofa that he suspected might have been left here simply for the crime of being ugly when someone called out,

“Draco? Ginny?” It was Luna. Draco backed away from the sofa, relieved. 

“Did you find it?” Ginny called, her voice distant and muffled.

“I think I did.”

Draco wended his way back to the entrance with his heart thudding in his ears. He tried desperately not to get his hopes up. Perhaps Luna had come across a  _ different _ potions book, someone else’s defaced school property. Or perhaps she had merely gotten excited over a charmed necklace or stuffed grindylow and wanted to show them.

But when he finally reached the place where she was standing and saw the tattered old book in her hands, he knew this wasn’t a false alarm. He stopped. Moments later, Ginny came running up behind him, face flushed and eyes glowing. She was enjoying this. 

Luna looked up at them, an ethereal smile on her face, and placed the book into Draco’s hands. It was all he could do to stop himself from tearing through the pages in his eagerness. He paused, waiting for his hands to steady, then carefully lifted the cover.

_ This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince _ . Bizarre. Had Potter written that? He was a half blood, after all. But no, that wasn’t really his style. And— Draco realized with a little twist in his gut— it wasn’t Potter’s handwriting. He hadn’t realized he knew what Potter’s handwriting looked like. He turned the page, and saw that it was covered in dense, furious scrawl. Whoever had owned this book had really hated standard potions-making practice. They had crossed things out, written in the margins, and even written, “Ha!” next to one direction to which they took particular offense. 

Holding the book up to the dim light, Draco realized that this handwriting, though not Potter’s, did look rather familiar. He had seen it before, in white chalk, scrawling directions.  _ Chop beetles finely, do not shred wings. Stir seven times counterclockwise _ .

“Merlin’s beard,” Draco murmured. He knew who this book had belonged to, once upon a time. Potter had to as well, didn’t he? Unless he really paid so little attention in Potions. 

“What is it?” Ginny asked. “What does it say?”

“This book did belong to a Death Eater,” Draco said. He felt a little sick as the reality of those words settled in. Snape was a Death Eater. Had always been one. It had been Snape’s spell that tore through his body, carving him on the bathroom floor. It was Snape’s spell that trapped him now. Snape, who had always been on his side. Who had always helped him, always given him the advantage. Snape who he had been relying on, up to the very end, to save him from the trap the Dark Lord had laid for him. How horribly ironic.

“How do you know?” Ginny asked, leaning over his shoulder to see.

Draco ignored her. He flipped ahead in the book, his eyes scanning the margins frantically. Most of the writing was about potions, what to do and not to do, how to make them better. He stopped every time he saw something different— a note or a handwritten spell. Most of them were useless.  _ Muffliato _ . That didn’t sound like it was meant to alter time.  _ Levicorpus _ . All it took was a basic grasp of Latin to understand what that spell did. He flipped ahead again, and paused, briefly, over another spell.  _ Sectumsempra— for enemies.  _ Ah. His free hand drifted absently to his chest. How much vile, burning anger did it take to create a spell like that? 

“Is that the spell?” Ginny asked, and Draco realized he had lingered too long over that page.

“No,” he said quickly. “Not the right sort of incantation.” He turned the page again, scanning for anything that might be of use. 

When it finally appeared, he almost missed it. It was written close to the text of the page, as if it were a potions critique. But something caught his eye— the intentionality of the letters, perhaps, so unlike the rest of the hastily scrawled words.  _ Iterum Vivere _ , it read. And, below it:  _ To change a heart _ .

Wordlessly, he handed the book to Luna.

“To change a heart,” Ginny said. “To change a…” she trailed off.

To Draco’s surprise, he wasn’t filled with a sudden rush of triumph. Instead, an eery calm settled over him, accompanied by a swirling, dizzying feeling. To change a heart. Had Potter known, when he cast that spell, what it was for? He must have. It said it, right beneath the incantation. Once, Potter had cast sectumsempra. For enemies. But when Draco fled the scene of his crime, moments after Dumbledore’s death, Potter had chosen something different. Why? 

“That’s good,” Luna said evenly. “Isn’t it? Now we know how to end the spell.”

“Yes,” Draco said softly. “I suppose we do.”

Ginny frowned. “Sounds like an ‘easier said than done’ sort of thing.” 


	8. Hijinks and Horcruxes

Luna suggested they bring the book back to their cozy work corner to study it closer. Ginny was meant to go to Potions after her free period, but she shrugged and said she’d get the chance to take the lesson the next day, because it didn’t seem like the spell was going to be broken overnight. When they reached the spot with the armchair and the desk, they found that a third seat had sprouted up, a straight-backed, antique-looking chair with plush pink cushions and generous armrests. Ginny made straight for it and plopped herself down like it had been made for her, which of course it had.

Draco sank into his armchair heavily.

“Well,” Luna said, taking her own seat and laying the potions book down gently on her desk. 

“Well,” Ginny echoed. “What do you think?”

“Maybe,” Draco began. “Maybe we could try another diagram. Another deconstruction. We have accurate information now. I know who created that spell.”

“Who?” Ginny asked. 

Draco hesitated. “It was Professor Snape.” He wondered how Weasley would react to this, but she just rolled her eyes and said, “Figures.”

“We don’t need another diagram,” Luna said. “The spell was designed with a purpose. When its purpose is complete, it will fade.”

Both Luna and Ginny fixed their gazes on Draco, and he squirmed. Their attention was too pointed, too prickly. 

“But what if…” he began. He trailed off, unable to say it out loud.  _ What if my heart can’t really change? _ He had thought it was already changed. Hadn’t he disavowed the Dark Lord? Hadn’t he pledged to abandon the Death Eaters and join the Order of the Phoenix as soon as he was free to do so? Hadn’t he even stopped being cruel to Luna? Well, at least stopped being as cruel as he used to be. What more was there?

“Maybe it’s not enough to change,” Ginny said. “Maybe you have to prove you’ve changed. Atone.”

Draco looked up at her and was surprised to see something almost like pity in her thoughtful expression. She wanted that to be true, for him.

“I don’t know,” Draco muttered. He knew he would have to make amends. As soon as the spell was broken, as soon as he was safe from Voldemort, it would be expected of him. Demanded of him. Rightfully, of course. But some cold, selfish part of him recoiled from the idea. He just wanted it all to be over. The war, his part in it. He didn’t want to fight for the Order any more than he truly wanted to fight for the Death Eaters. He didn’t want to give any more than he already had. He was afraid that there would be nothing left. He couldn’t voice any of this to Luna and Ginny, so he asked, “What can I do when I’m trapped in this one day? Nothing I do will be permanent anyway.”

“It will if it breaks the spell,” Luna said. 

“Right,” Draco sighed. “If.”

“We should go out for drinks,” Ginny said, out of nowhere. Draco stared at her blankly. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Drinks,” Ginny repeated, as if Draco hadn’t heard. “You know. We’re trapped in a repeating day, our actions have no consequences, I’m already missing class. It’s the middle of a school day, there won’t be any professors in Hogsmeade to catch us.” She looked from Luna to Draco. “Drinks.”

“I like drinks,” Luna said.

For a moment, Draco wanted to protest. They weren’t taking this seriously. He had a spell to break, tons of new information to process, amends to make, evil to conquer. But thinking of all of it together like that made him feel like the Room of Requirement was shrinking, the walls slowly but inexorably closing in on him.

“Drinks,” he sighed. “Yes, I could use a drink.”

They snuck out of the castle disguised by a truly exceptional Disillusionment charm cast by Ginny and traipsed down to Hogsmeade in silence. It was a mild day, springtime but not intoxicated with its own jubilance. A faint breeze stirred the well-trod grass of the path to the village, and Draco closed his eyes at the feeling of cool air on his face. He hadn’t gone outdoors in a while, he realized. Not since before he had begun working with Luna. He had abandoned everything but working towards breaking the spell. Maybe it hadn’t been the worst idea ever to involve Ginny Weasley.

Luna certainly didn’t seem to think so. She half skipped, half walked the whole way, humming a cheerful tune under her breath. Draco caught Ginny watching her at one point. The Weasley girl shook her head with a smile caught between humor and affection. 

The Three Broomsticks was predictably empty when they arrived. There were a few old wizards at the bar, all with identical grimy gray beards nodding over identical mugs of butterbeer, though they sat several seats apart and did not appear to be together. What looked like a witchy bachelorette party was giggling and chatting in one corner, getting an early start on their evening’s activities. One of the witches wore a tiara that hummed the wedding march and emitted little clouds of butterflies at regular intervals.

When Draco, Luna, and Ginny entered, Madam Rosmerta looked them up and down and raised one eyebrow in a perfect, disapproving arch. But she said nothing as she served them their drinks, apparently deciding that it wasn’t her job to discipline wayward Hogwarts students. 

Draco took a small sip of his firewhiskey and savored the burn all the way down his throat. Yes, drinks had been an absolutely wonderful idea. Two more sips, and his shoulders began to unclench, his ever-present litany of worries fading gently into the background. Luna hummed softly as she sipped a violently pink cocktail from a straw, and Draco caught Ginny watching her again over the rim of her butterbeer, that same little smile on her face.

“So,” Draco said after the silence had gone on far too long. He was feeling bold, and he noticed, distantly, that his voice was tinged with something of its old drawling bravado. “You and Potter.” He nodded at Ginny. “How’s that working out?” He hadn’t meant for it to sound quite so...smug. Ginny, however, didn’t seem offended. She raised her eyebrows and took another sip of butterbeer.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Not exactly the easiest year to be starting a relationship. Should have asked him out in third year.”

“But he probably didn’t like you back then,” Luna said matter-of-factly. “Not like that.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Ginny said wryly, but she didn’t seem annoyed by Luna’s comment either. This Weasley was a bit harder to rattle than Ron. She took more after the twins, Draco thought. He had tried to sneer at them once— something about ‘where did your mother find all those matching hand-me-downs’ — and they just looked at him like he was a cockroach trying to speak and cursed his shoes to make loud farting noises whenever he walked. “I don’t know,” Ginny went on. “Maybe I’ve just been in love with him for so long it’s hard to tell if it’s actually working, or just wishful thinking.”

She was being so honest. Had she leapt so quickly from hating Draco’s guts to trusting him with her most personal concerns, or was she like this with everyone? Maybe she was just tipsy.

“Why do you care about me and Harry?” Ginny asked, and Draco felt Luna’s attention swing to him. He swallowed. 

“I— er, I was just making polite conversation. How are your— er— OWLS going?”

Ginny snorted. “Terribly.”

“That’s not true,” Luna said. “You’re definitely going to get an Outstanding in Charms  _ and _ Transfiguration.”

“Yeah, well, I think the Troll in Potions will cancel it out.”

“Transfiguration was my worst subject,” Draco found himself saying. “I never bloody understood it. If I want a pincushion, I’ll just summon one, not track down a hedgehog and turn it into one.” 

To his surprise, Ginny and Luna burst out laughing. After the initial shock wore off, Draco laughed too. 

“You’re good at Potions, though, aren’t you, Draco?” Luna said. She was halfway through her drink and her lips were stained bright pink. As he watched they changed to purple, then red. Whatever she was drinking, it had Arula’s Marvelous Color-Changing Liqueur, which meant Lovegood would be waking up to a spectacular hangover the next day. Except, she wouldn’t, because the day would reset. There were, perhaps, some benefits to their situation.

“I’m decent,” Draco said, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for not saying something far more arrogant.

“Wonderful, maybe you can tutor me,” Ginny sighed. “Yesterday I brewed a hair  _ dissolving _ solution instead of a hair  _ regrowing _ solution, and...well, let’s just say Zelda Harford’s wearing a hat today.”

Draco laughed, a genuine belly laugh. He  _ liked _ the girl Weasley. Across from him, Luna dissolved into helpless, high-pitched giggles. These went on for so long the bachelorette party started shooting them glances.

“O-o-kay,” Ginny said, exchanging a glance with Draco. “Maybe it’s time we start heading back up to the castle. I think Luna’s maybe had enough.”

“I— I’m okay,” Luna panted, recovering from her hysteria. Her whole face was flushed, and her lips were lurid green. She looked a bit Christmas-y. 

“What exactly are you drinking?” Ginny pulled Luna’s drink over and took a sip. Her eyes widened. “That is  _ incredible _ . Hold on, screw the beer. Where’s Madam Rosmerta?”

In the end, they ordered a whole round of what turned out to be called Dizzy Daydream cocktails. Where the firewhiskey had mellowed Draco, the Dizzy Daydream turned everything sparkly and utterly hilarious. When Ginny knocked over her empty tankard they all three collapsed into giggles, and Luna stumbling over the word “cauldron” left Draco gasping for air. When they tried to order a second round, Madam Rosmerta cut them off and told them to “march right quick back to the castle before I call the Headmaster.” 

“Doesn’ matter,” Ginny muttered. “Tomorrow’s a new day.” 

And they all spilled out onto the streets of Hogsmeade, doubled over with laughter.

The sun had nearly set, and the sky was a magnificent spread of indigo and scarlet. 

“Hey, matches your lips,” Ginny cried, pointing to Draco. He peered at himself in a dark shop window and saw that his lips were, indeed, the dark purple color of the sky. 

It got darker as they made their way back to Hogwarts, and Draco had to give the Lumos charm a few goes before his wand lit. Had he ever been this drunk before? The path before him spun and he was finding it hard to walk in a straight line. Beside him, Luna had her arm around Ginny’s shoulder. She was the only one who’d had two Dizzy Daydreams, and she had a blissful, vacant expression on her face. 

The hysterical high of the drink faded into a euphoric glow. Draco couldn’t stop shooting glances at the two girls stumbling beside him. He had seen both of them countless times before, but it felt as if their faces had changed, opened, become lovelier. Now, when he looked at Ginny, he didn’t feel the surge of disdain that the Weasleys had always provoked in him. Instead, he felt a prickle of admiration. When he looked at Luna he didn’t feel unbearable disgust. In fact, the surge of affection that rose in him was so pathetically sappy he wasn’t sure he would have been capable of feeling it without at least one sickeningly pink cocktail in his system. He was vaguely aware he would be embarrassed by all this in the morning.

But at this moment, as twilight faded to night and the lights of the castle rose over the next hill, warm and inviting, he ran ahead like a little boy and turned back to watch his new friends catch up, laughing at them, laughing with them. Like there was nothing hanging over their heads, like there was no way any of this could go wrong.

Lying in bed that night, watching the clock tick down to midnight and slowly sobering up, Draco thought about  _ Iterum Vivere _ . In Latin, to live again. It was, quite literally, a second chance. Before he had gone out with Ginny and Luna, he had, briefly, resented this. Why didn’t Potter just Stupefy him? Neutralize him, leave him to his fate? He had felt it would be easier to return to Voldemort a failure, to be punished. Like he deserved.  _ I’m irredeemable _ .

But as the Dizzy Daydream left his system, a strange clarity settled in. It didn’t matter how or why or if he deserved it. He had been given a second chance. It would be an insult to everyone to throw it away, to throw away the chance he had to make right some of the wrong he had done. It wasn’t cowardly to accept the hand that was being offered to him— it would be cowardly to turn away from it. 

Draco knew what he had to do. He had always been cruel to Potter, and to Granger and Lovegood and Longbottom and every Weasley to ever cross the threshold of Hogwarts. He would make amends for that. But that wasn’t the sort of amends he had to make to break the spell. He needed to atone for the much larger, much more intractable evil that had dominated his life since the day he first spoke the word “mudblood.” He had to join the fight—  _ really _ join the fight— against You-Know-Who. Against Voldemort.

It was one thing to think it, another to believe he would actually do it. But he had to think it first, didn’t he?

With that thought burning like a low flame in his chest, Draco rolled over and drifted off to sleep.

“Thank God this bloody curse erased my hangover.”

Ginny, Luna, and Draco were perched in their respective chairs in the Room of Requirement, munching on muffins that Ginny had, quite thoughtfully, nicked from the Great Hall. Both girls had their memories restored, and they both looked as dazed by the events of the previous night as Draco felt. What in the name of Helga Hufflepuff had happened?

“I don’t know if I should drink Dizzy Daydreams,” Luna said softly. Ginny and Draco laughed. 

“Well,” Draco said, once the laughter died down. “I suppose we ought to get down to business.”

“Right,” Ginny said, setting down her muffin. “What exactly are we doing, though?”

“I have a bit of an idea,” Draco said. “I was thinking, last night. After I sobered up a bit. I think… it’s possible that the best way to make amends is to try to...well, help Potter.”

“Help Harry? Like carry his books around or something?”

“No, not exactly what I had in mind.” Draco shuddered inwardly at the thought of him trotting along behind Potter, arms laden with spellbooks. “I meant help him fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“That sounds about right,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “It’s a good way to make amends. But how exactly are you going to do that? I mean, I’m sure Harry’s doing something. He’s always got some plan. But he’s so...secretive. If he won’t even tell  _ me _ what he’s up to…”

Why would he confide in Draco Malfoy, his sworn nemesis and foe?

“Well, I didn’t get here by asking Potter to please tell me where he left his potions book.”

“Right, eavesdropping. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Don’t you eavesdrop on him all the time?” Luna asked, apparently completely unaware that this might be an awkward question. Ginny grinned.

“Maybe. But it’s not exactly easy. He and Ron and Hermione are always whispering in some corner, and half the time I think he puts a spell so no one else can hear what they’re saying. If I get too close my ears get all fuzzy, even with an Extendable Ear.”

“You’ve used Extendable Ears on your boyfriend?” Draco blurted.

Ginny grimaced. “This is a no-judgement zone.”

“Well, have you managed to learn anything?” Draco asked.

“All I know is that he has secret meetings with Dumbledore that have something to do with You-Know-Who. Fighting him or strategizing or something. Harry always whispers with Ron and Hermione for hours after them.” Draco didn’t miss the resentment in her voice, and he suddenly saw Ginny much younger, the baby sister shut out of everything, too young, too girly. Now Potter was doing the exact same thing, and with her brother no less. “I think Dumbledore’s been teaching Harry about some sort of arcane magic. I heard him use a word...it was bizarre. Like ‘horcus’ or something.”

“Hocus pocus?” Luna suggested. “That’s a Muggle term for magic.”

“No, not that. Maybe ‘horkiss.’ I don’t know.”

The word nudged something in Draco’s memory, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Something his father had talked about once? One of the things he wasn’t supposed to talk about at school, only at home? Maybe he was thinking of something else. “Well, it can’t hurt to try,” he sighed. “Eavesdropping, I mean. Who knows, maybe I’ll catch him being spectacularly careless. Wouldn’t exactly be out of character.”

Only Luna looked mildly disapproving. Ginny laughed. “Yeah, why not give it a go.”

By the time Draco returned to the Room of Requirement that evening, he was feeling far less hopeful about his chances. The three of them had decided to split up, tailing Potter at separate times to make it less suspicious. Luna followed him all morning, and Ginny took over in the afternoon when he went up to the common room for a break. Draco took over after her, following Potter to his last class and the Great Hall, trying to sit close enough to listen without being too conspicuous. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle didn’t help this, as they kept shooting him questioning glances that clearly said, “why are you sitting all the way over there?” Finally Potter went up the Gryffindor Tower and Ginny resumed her investigative role. She had even offered to ask Potter some mildly prying questions if she got the chance. 

But when Ginny returned to the Room of Requirement just a few hours after Draco, she looked disgruntled. 

“Nothing,” she said, collapsing into her chair. “He had a paper to finish, then he wanted to talk about Quidditch, then he went to bed. I asked him if he had any meetings with Dumbledore coming up, and started poking around a bit, but he shut it down. He won’t talk about it.”

"Well, thanks for trying."

“Look, now that I know I’m trapped in an endlessly repeating day, I’m as keen to get out of it as you are.” 

Draco glanced over at Luna, who was bent over a thick, dusty looking tome, her nose just inches from the page. He hadn’t really registered this at first, but it was a bit odd. He had never really seen Luna read anything but the Quibbler.

“Luna,” he said. “What is that?”

Luna’s orb-like eyes drifted up. “It’s a book,” she said. “It was here when I came back from stalking Harry.”

“It’s not stalking,” Ginny muttered.

“The Room provided it? It wasn’t here before?” Draco stood up and crossed to Luna’s desk. “What is it, what’s it about?”

“It’s called  _ The Vanquishing of the Darkest Arts _ . It’s very old. A bit prejudiced, too. It says all werewolves are inherently evil and should be killed and their pelts turned into cloaks.”

Ginny made a disgusted face, but Draco wasn’t really paying attention.

“Luna,” he said. “Can I see that?”

Luna nodded and closed the book, handing its hefty weight to Draco. He tipped it open to the back and was gratified to realize that the book hadn’t been written before the invention of indices. He scanned the index, eyes sliding over B (banshees, banishment of; brooms, cursed), D (darkness, impenetrable), F (foolhardiness in the face of evil) until he reached H.

Something had clicked when he saw Luna with that book. His father, descending the steps to the hidden cellar beneath their front parlor. Draco, following him down by wandlight.  _ You can’t ever tell anyone about these books _ , Lucius had said, running his hands along the shelves of cracked and blood-stained spines. Draco’s eyes slid from title to title.  _ An Uncensored History of the Death Eaters. Curses from the Beyond. Horcruxes: The True Mage’s Guide _ .

Not ‘horcus.’ Horcrux. And as Draco ran one finger along the H section of the index, the word jumped out at him. Horcruxes, destruction of, page 892.

“What is it?” Ginny asked, more seriously now. 

“Horcruxes,” Draco muttered. “I don’t know what they are, but that has to be the word you heard Potter say. Horcrux.” He returned to his seat, not taking his eyes from the book, and began flipping to the designated page. When he reached it, he read aloud. “‘As an optimistic man, I shall hope that no reader of this book will ever encounter the dreaded magic that is the horcrux. But it is my task to prepare you, dear reader, for whatever heinous spellwork may cross your path. The horcrux is the depth of horror, the most irreparable of magics. But this does not mean it is indestructible.

“‘For those who have yet had the good fortune to never hear the cursed name ‘horcrux,’ I will give but brief explanation. The horcrux, born of murder, contains the fragment of a wizard’s shattered soul. It protects from death, but is the enemy of life.’”

Draco paused as these words sunk in. 

“Merlin,” Ginny breathed. Draco could tell from her expression that she understood at once. He did too. It made sense. It made terrible, frightening sense. Luna’s expression remained solemn and serene, her eyes deep as the Great Lake.

“Voldemort has a horcrux,” Draco said, testing the words out loud. 

“It makes sense,” Luna said. “We thought he died, but he came back.”

“You didn’t know?” Ginny said, turning to Draco. “Being a...you know.”

Draco’s left forearm tingled unpleasantly. “I didn’t know,” he said. “Probably no one does. He doesn’t exactly… trust people.” He hated the way Ginny’s eyes flicked away from him when he talked about You-Know-Who. 

“But...what  _ is _ a horcrux?” she asked. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said. He turned back to the book. “Let’s see… it says, ‘though it may be any object, the horcrux, once infused with the soul fragment and the evil magics of binding, becomes nearly impossible to destroy.’”

“So it can be anything,” Ginny murmured. “Damn.”

“There’s a list here of ways you can destroy one,” Draco said. “It’s not very long. Basilisk venom, fiendfyre. Merlin, these are dangerous things to carry around.”

“That must be what Dumbledore is teaching Harry,” Luna said. “To find the horcrux and destroy it.”

Draco had a fleeting, glorious image of himself arriving at Dumbledore’s office, some ruined object in his hand.  _ I found it. I destroyed it _ . Dumbledore’s eyes widening, Potter torn between rage and admiration…

“Well that’s hopeless, then,” Ginny said, shattering Draco’s daydream. “If Dumbledore and Harry together haven’t figured it out, there’s no way we will.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Luna said. “Neither of them has ever been a Death Eater.” Both she and Ginny turned to look at Draco. His stomach went sick and cold.

“I don’t have much information,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “I’ve only seen him a few times.” 

“Your parents must have talked about him,” Ginny said. 

His father had. His mother treated the topic of You-Know-Who like a mildly embarrassing family secret, not to be mentioned in polite company or in front of children. 

“A bit,” Draco said, looking down at his feet. His shoes needed a bit of a polish. “They never said anything about horcruxes. Not even close.”

There was a long silence. 

“It’s getting late,” Ginny said finally. “I want to get back to my dorm before time resets.” She got to her feet, and Luna followed suit.

“Think about it tonight,” Luna said to Draco. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “See you tomorrow.” 

The girls left. The moment they were gone, Draco dropped his head in his hands. He felt hollowed out, hopeless. All the excitement and clarity of the day before was gone. He couldn’t do this. He would never, ever escape this spell. 

He would never be good enough. 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying in his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. The day had reset, and he was right back where he started.

He almost didn’t get out of bed. When Goyle broke his vial of polyjuice potion, the crash and curse like clockwork, Draco buried his head deeper in his pillow. He just couldn’t do it today. Not again.

_ Hey, _ said a voice in his head.  _ What are you doing? _

It was so clear it startled him. 

_ What do you think you’re doing? _

The voice belonged to Ginny Weasley. Not literally, of course. Somewhere in the castle she was waking up, getting ready for her day, not remembering a single moment she had spent with Draco over the past two days.

But, Draco realized, he didn’t need her to be present to know exactly what she would say to him.  _ Get out of bed, you wanker. You’ve got work to do. _

He got out of bed.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he got dressed and took the stairs out of the dungeons two at a time. When he reached the top, he saw Potter descending the marble staircase. Before Draco had a chance to react, Potter looked up, and their eyes met. Potter tensed visibly, and his sleepy expression vanished, replaced with something cold and hard as stone. Draco swallowed, unable to look away, suddenly filled with dread. He had forgotten, bizarrely, that Harry Potter hated him. He stood frozen to the spot as Potter strode past him, his eyes not leaving Draco until he disappeared into the Great Hall. Draco remained where he was for a long time, feeling very, very small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Harry will actually be in this fic soon!! I wasn't kidding when I said slow burn. Also, I'm not 100% sure about the whole wizarding drinking age thing so just pretend Rosmerta would serve them liquor.


	9. The Heart of the Castle

“We just need more information,” Ginny said for the millionth time. When her memory had returned that morning, she proclaimed she was tired of the Room of Requirement and insisted they all go sit out on the castle grounds. 

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Draco had said.

“We’ll go in the forest a bit,” Ginny said. “No one will even see us. Besides, it’s not  _ illegal _ for a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, and a Slytherin to spend time together.”

“No, but you might lose your boyfriend if he sees you hanging out with  _ me _ .”

Ginny just scowled at him and dragged them outside. They snuck past a Care of Magical Creatures lesson and ducked under the cover of the Forbidden Forest.

Now, Ginny leaned against the trunk of a twisted sapling, her red hair bright in the sunlight. Luna sat cross-legged beside her, building a little house out of twigs and leaves. Draco reclined on Ginny’s other side, enjoying the sunshine despite himself. 

“I know we need more information,” he said, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. “But where are we going to get it?” 

Several days had passed since their night out in Hogsmeade, and with each one they had attempted a new strategy. 

Ginny had tried to corner Hermione and pry some information out of her. Hermione insisted she knew nothing, and refused to ‘get involved’ in Ginny and Harry’s relationship. 

Draco, cloaked in a disillusionment charm, had tried to sneak into Dumbledore’s office. The office’s wards undid the charm and began to wail, “Intruder! Intruder!” He made a run for it. 

Luna had dug up a back issue of the Quibbler that featured an article titled “The Dark Lord: Likes and Dislikes.” “It was meant to help people stay on his good side if they ever needed to,” she said. “Maybe it can help us.” Draco had taken one look at the article, seen “Pomeranians” on the “Likes” list, and suggested they move on to a new plan. 

“We’ve tried everything,” Draco sighed. 

“Everything short of a Confundus charm,” Ginny corrected. Draco looked up at her, trying to decide if she was joking. Truly, the idea hadn’t occurred to him in a while. It probably should have. 

“Is this an ‘ends justify the means’ situation?” he asked. “Or an ‘I’m trying to make amends for my previous wrongs so I probably shouldn’t commit any more’ situation?”

Luna cocked her head to one side, as if she were weighing the relative morality of it all. “I would say,” she began. “That you probably shouldn’t Confund anyone.”

“No,” Ginny said. “Not a good look. For you.” She had a thoughtful gleam in her eye. Draco waited for her to say something more, but she just kept turning her wand over in her hands, her mind clearly on something else. He let out a long sigh.

“I think I’ve exhausted all the ideas I can possibly come up with today.” 

“Sleep on it?” Ginny suggested. 

“Yeah.” Draco had slept on it. He had slept on it over and over and he was getting nowhere. But what choice did he have?

The three of them went their separate ways. Luna wandered off to join the Care of Magical Creatures lesson which, it turned out, she was supposed to be in. Ginny muttered something about her OWLS and disappeared up to the castle. Draco lingered in the forest for a bit before beginning the trek back to the castle as well, meandering up the hillside without even really bothering to hide. Maybe he would get caught and put in detention. Wouldn’t really make much of a difference. If anything, it would be a new way to pass yet another interminable day. 

No one bothered to send him to detention. No one even seemed to notice him. He wandered into lunch at the Great Hall and shoveled some chicken into his mouth, tasting nothing. He went to the library and walked up and down among the stacks until Madam Pince told him to pick a book or leave. After that, his feet took him, reliably, to the Room of Requirement. Maybe he would ask it for something else this time. A peaceful place to nap. An endless library to pace. 

But when he reached the seventh floor corridor, there was someone already standing outside of the Room of Requirement: Ginny. She stood with her arms crossed, wand in one hand, foot tapping impatiently on the flagstones. When Draco rounded the corner she looked up, and a grim smile crossed her face.

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I was going to have to wait until tomorrow. I had no idea where to find you, but I thought this was my best bet.”

“What is it?” Draco asked, hurrying to join her. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Ginny said. “No, I’ve...figured something out.”

Excitement leaped in Draco’s chest, but he hung back, wary. She didn’t sound triumphant or even pleased. She looked almost...shifty.

“What did you do?” he asked, as the details of that morning’s conversation returned to him.

“Well, Luna was right. It would have been a terrible idea for  _ you _ to Confund someone for information. Wouldn’t really show your commitment to making amends. But I thought, well, the spell doesn’t really care about what  _ I _ do, does it?”

“Oh, Merlin.” Draco wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or scream at Ginny. It had been a reckless, impulsive, and probably immoral thing to do. If she’d offered, Draco would have said no. But it was done. Would it still count against him if he listened to what she had learned?

“Look,” Ginny said. “I know you’re worried about doing bad things, but you could make amends to  _ me _ by using what I learned to get us out of this ridiculous spell. Not that I haven’t enjoyed our quality time together, but I’d really like to get on with my life now, thank you very much.”

_ She enjoyed our time together _ , Draco thought. It was pathetic, really, how much that warmed him. Pathetic. But he found it difficult to hate himself too much for it.

“Okay,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Okay, why don’t you find Luna. We can discuss it together.” 

Ginny darted off to track down their erstwhile companion, and Draco stood blankly in front of the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Questions swirled in his head. Who had Ginny Confunded? Had she learned anything useful? Something that might help him find a horcrux? What would he do if he  _ did _ find one? 

He heard footsteps nearby. It was too soon for Ginny to have returned with Luna, and he didn’t really fancy being caught lurking, not now that he had plans for the rest of the day and a detention for skipping class would be an actual inconvenience. He knew he should wait for Ginny and Luna inside of the Room, but he didn’t really want to return to the place where he had concealed the Vanishing Cabinet. It had become cozy enough in their corner, but each time Draco stepped across the threshold into that familiar dim light and faced the twisting maze of contraband, his gut twisted with familiar terror and misery, and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t there to fight a losing battle with a piece of magical furniture. 

The footsteps drew closer. Draco closed his eyes and thought,  _ Somewhere nice to talk _ . He thought it again and again as he walked once, twice, three times in front of the blank stretch of wall. The door appeared as he opened his eyes, and he stepped through.

He found himself in a cozy sitting room no larger than one of Malfoy Manor’s closets. The walls were a deep indigo color, scattered with golden stars that twinkled gently. A window looked out on a view (surely fabricated) of tall, waving grasses and bright blue sky. Three cushy armchairs circled a coffee table laden with a small potted plant, a box of tissues, and a stack of books with bright, worn covers. 

Draco paused in the entryway. He had never been in a room like this before. It reminded him a bit of how the Three Broomsticks felt on a quiet evening. It was nothing like any room in Malfoy Manor, and certainly nothing like the Slytherin common room, with its green-tinged lighting and furniture chosen for antique style over comfort. 

He approached one of the armchairs, almost hesitant, and sank into it. It was like sinking into a warm bath, or falling into his four poster bed after an impossibly long day. He leaned back, hoping he never had to stand up again.

But then he remembered Ginny and Luna would have no way of finding him. With great reluctance he stood up and made for the door. Pausing with his hand on the knob he whispered, “I’ll be back in a moment.” 

_ Absolutely pathetic. Talking to a room _ . But Draco didn’t want to lose this cozy little space to the castle’s quirks. He wanted it to be there when he came back.

Draco only had to loiter in the corridor a few minutes before Ginny came striding around the corner, Luna in tow. She didn’t look at all perturbed at having been pulled out of her class, and she smiled airily at Draco. 

“I...found a new place for us to talk,” Draco said when they were in earshot. “Here, follow me.” 

He crossed in front of the wall, holding his words and the memory of the room close, and pushed the door open warily, certain it would be wrong.

It wasn’t. Luna and Ginny piled in behind him, and both made soft noises of admiration.

“Much better,” Ginny said, throwing herself into one of the armchairs. Draco noticed that as soon as the girls had entered, a fireplace had bloomed on one wall, burning merrily, and a delicate chandelier made of what appeared to be old potions vials of multicolored glass appeared on the ceiling. It wasn’t a bad effect.

Luna took her seat next to Ginny, reaching for the books on the coffee table. “ _ Lulu’s Revenge: A Wemberley Warlock Mystery _ ,” she read. “ _ The Care and Keeping of Flemish Fleegles _ — oh, these are good! My father says fleegles are very difficult to keep in captivity. They’re a bit tricky to find, too, of course…”

“Before you bury your nose in that and never come out again,” Ginny said, gently plucking the book from Luna’s hands. “Don’t you want to hear what I learned?” She glanced up at Draco as well, and he hurried to his seat. His heart had begun to thud against his ribs.

“Did you really Confund someone?” Luna asked.

“Yes,” Ginny said. “I...I Confunded Ron.” 

“Really?” Draco said before he could stop himself. “Weasley?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “I’m a Weasley too, you know. And if you think you could slip a Confundus charm over Hermione before she counter-cursed you into the ground, be my guest.”

“Fair,” Draco muttered. 

“Besides, Harry shares the same amount of information with both of them. Whether it’s everything he knows...well, it doesn’t matter. Because I think I have a lead.”

“You do?” Draco heard the tremulous note in his own voice. He hated it— somewhere between childish hope and naked fear. 

“Ron said that Dumbledore thinks He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named made multiple horcruxes. Maybe even seven of them.”

Draco heard a sharp intake of breath from Luna. The idea of seven horcruxes was too much for him to process. He barely knew what a horcrux was. It was difficult to imagine, difficult to feel the enormity of, though he knew that must be a level of evil few— if any— other wizards had achieved. 

“Potter’s got his work cut out for him then,” was all he managed to say.

“The good news is Dumbledore has some leads. Apparently, he thinks that You-Know-Who might have made horcruxes out of magical objects that were already significant. And maybe had something to do with Hogwarts. Which  _ means _ there might even be one in the castle.” 

Draco was silent for a moment, his heart thudding audibly in his ears. A horcrux within the castle. That would mean there was no excuse for him  _ not _ to find and destroy it, no excuse to pick some other way to make amends. He wiped his hands on his robes; they were slick with sweat.

“I know of some significant magical objects connected to Hogwarts,” Luna said, as if they were discussing the best place to get a drink in Hogsmeade, or a particularly interesting potion recipe. “My father’s very interested in the Founders, you see. They left all sorts of hidden magic behind.”

“What sorts of hidden magic?” Ginny asked.

“Well, the Chamber of Secrets for one. No one believed it was real, but of course we know it is.” Draco noticed that Ginny’s grip on the book tightened at the mention of the Chamber. He had almost forgotten that she was the girl they found down there— courtesy of his father’s meddling. “But they left magical objects, too. The Sword of Gryffindor. Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem. I even heard that Helga Hufflepuff had a hat bewitched to make the wearer start stripping anytime they heard cello music.”

“So, a sword that’s in Dumbledore’s possession, a diadem that’s famously  _ lost _ , and a raunchy piece of headwear. That’s what we have to go on.” Draco heard the edge in his voice.

“I don’t think that hat’s really You-Know-Who’s style,” Ginny said. “And obviously if the sword were a horcrux— which I doubt it would be, as it belonged to Gryffindor— then Dumbledore would have destroyed it already. He has it in his office, doesn’t he? Are there any other objects that might be out there?”

“Of course,” Luna said. “Anything the Founders owned is significant.”

“It’s— it’s better than nothing,” Ginny said encouragingly. “Um, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could have found the diadem. Or, he could have some other object. We could look around the castle. What do you think, Draco?” she added rather pointedly.

Draco sighed. What he really thought was that they were facing an impossible task. Even with the information Ginny had gotten, they were barely closer to finding anything. It was like multiplying 0 by 0. There were too many “ifs.”  _ If _ You-Know-Who had horcruxes and  _ if _ one of them was at Hogwarts and  _ if _ they could find it and  _ if _ they could destroy it, it  _ might _ prove enough to break the spell. 

If he were in the room with the Vanishing Cabinet, he might have said as much. But sitting in this new room, the hearth crackling merrily behind him, the grasses waving gently out the window, reminding him distantly of a dream he couldn’t quite remember, Draco began to think that maybe they had made some progress after all. He was certainly in a far better position than when he began, alone, to try and escape Potter’s spell. 

“We have to start somewhere,” he said. “We could...look for the diadem?”

“Yes,” Luna said. “I think so too. Actually, I think I know someone who can help us.”

“Can you please tell us what, exactly, we’re looking for?” Draco groaned for the thousandth time, stopping on a stair and putting his hands on his knees. He hadn’t realized what truly awful shape he was in. 

“We’re nearly there,” Luna said cheerfully, trotting on a few steps above him. Weasley passed him by with a smirk, her pace steady and easy. 

“Come on, Malfoy. It’s just a few stairs. I thought you were a seeker.”

“I  _ am _ a seeker,” Draco grumbled, heaving himself up another stair. But he had been skipping training quite frequently the past few months, and had been close to being kicked off the team before he managed to repair the Vanishing Cabinet. He really needed to get a good fly in. 

He dragged himself after Luna and Ginny, praying that they would find their mysterious destination at the top of this flight of stairs. At this point, he couldn’t even remember which tower they were ascending. Luna had led them first to the dungeons, then all the way up to the eighth floor, then down to an empty classroom on the third, and now up this steep, winding staircase. Whatever or whoever she was looking for, they didn’t seem to want to be found.

As if in answer to this thought, Luna said, “She’s almost definitely up here. She mostly sticks to her favorite spots, and we’ve checked them all except this one.”

Finally, they rounded a twist of the staircase and found themselves in a small alcove whose sole window looked out onto an impressive view of the castle grounds. Draco could see the wide green lawn, the shimmering surface of the Great Lake, and the treetops of the Forbidden Forest tossing in the spring breeze all the way to the horizon.

“There’s no one here,” Ginny said. “Luna, what exactly—?” 

“Hello, Helena,” Luna said, interrupting Ginny. Draco turned his head from side to side, but he saw no one in the alcove. Was this one of Luna’s bizarre delusions?

A flicker of movement in one of the curtains that framed the window caught his eye. He looked closer, and watched as a translucent hand emerged from the red velvet fabric, followed by a lace-cuffed arm and a beaded bodice.

Of course. A ghost. 

A wary face emerged, ringed in dark curls, eyes darting from Draco to Ginny to Luna. 

“Luna,” said the Gray Lady in an almost petulant voice. “Who are these people?” Her tone made Draco shudder slightly— it reminded him a bit of Moaning Myrtle. Maybe it was a ghost thing, that wheedling note. 

“They’re friends,” Luna said, reaching out a hand as if to comfort the spirit.

“Are you sure they don’t want something from me?” Her eyes narrowed and she turned to Draco. “Test answers? Secrets of the dead?”

“She’s the Ravenclaw ghost,” Luna explained. “People seem to think she has all the knowledge they need. But no one bothers to get to know her.” Turning to the Gray Lady, she said, “We do want your help. But we want your help as a friend.”

The Gray Lady hesitated. Draco could tell she had a soft spot for Luna; the ghost’s expression eased every time she looked at her fellow Ravenclaw. What had Luna called her? Helena?

“Of course I’d help  _ you _ ,” she said to Luna. “But why them? Is that not a Death Eater?” She waved a dismissive hand at Draco, whose heart flopped. How could she possibly know that? He hadn’t told anyone that might have shared it with her. But, he supposed, ghosts had their own ways of obtaining information. 

“That’s why we’re here,” Luna said. “He regrets what he’s done. He doesn’t want to be a Death Eater anymore.”

The Gray Lady turned her hard, glinting gaze on Draco.

“That explains the disturbance,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I can feel it. It’s centered on you.”

“The-the disturbance?” Draco asked, not sure if he was allowed to speak. 

“You can feel the curse, can’t you?” Luna said. “Does it affect you the same?”

The Gray Lady shook her head. “I can see everyone going in circles, I can feel the sun not changing. But time doesn’t hold still for me. I’m not in this world, not really.”

“That’s what we need your help with,” Ginny said. “We’re all trapped in this spell.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to help?” The Gray Lady turned her eyes on Ginny, and Ginny took an almost imperceptible step backwards. 

“I— it’s a bit of a long story.”

“We need your mother’s diadem,” Luna said.

Ah, Draco thought. Helena Ravenclaw. Of course. 

“I never thought you, of all people, would ask this of me.” The Gray Lady’s voice went cold as ice, reverberating in the small space though she hadn’t raised it at all. Draco shivered, and Ginny reached for Luna’s arm. But Luna continued to regard the Gray Lady calmly.

“We believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned the diadem into a horcrux,” she said. “Do you know what a horcrux is?”

“Of course I know what a horcrux is!” The Gray Lady spat. “My mother is Rowena Ravenclaw, master of all there is to know of magic. I am the most powerful witch to arise in a thousand years! I know magic, light and dark, ancient and untested.” She whirled around, turning her back on the three humans, and Draco noticed her shoulders hunching inward, almost as if she were frightened— or ashamed.

“I know you lost the diadem,” Luna said gently. “I know you never want to find it again. But if it’s a horcrux, it needs to be destroyed.”

There was a long silence. After a moment, Draco realized that the Gray Lady’s shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. When she spoke again, her voice was wrenched with tears.

“I never should have told him. I never should have spoken to him. I should have recognized that light in his eyes.”

Ginny opened her mouth as if to speak, but Luna shook her head. 

“No one had spoken to me in so many years. Not like a person. He— he asked me things. Whether I liked to dance. My favorite spells, my greatest accomplishments.”

Draco glanced at Ginny, and saw his own dawning recognition on her face. Maybe this wasn’t a wild goose chase after all. It sounded as if Helena were saying— 

“I did not know what he wanted. Power, yes. I knew he wanted power. But there is not always evil in the pursuit of power. So I told him. I told him where it was hidden, where it should have been forgotten forever.”

“Did he make it into a horcrux?” Luna asked. “Can you tell?”

The Gray Lady’s head lifted, and she drew her shoulders back. They were no longer shaking.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s power vies with the castle’s heart, beating its own rhythm. It’s wrong. It’s been wrong for so very long.”

“I— it’s here?” Ginny breathed. “In the castle?”

“He brought it back. He buried it where no clean soul would ever know to look. He wrapped it in the castle’s secrets.”

Draco felt a hand on his arm. He looked up, saw the concern on Ginny’s face, and realized he had swayed where he stood. 

In the castle. It was in the castle. A fragment of You-Know-Who’s soul was  _ here _ . The thought sickened him. It shouldn’t be here. Not here. This was the one, last safe place. From the moment You-Know-Who had returned, some part of Draco had sheltered in the knowledge that when he was within the four walls of Hogwarts, there would be no Death Eaters, no Dark Lord. Even when he longed to become a Death Eater, longed to win You-Know-Who’s favor, and boasted of his family connections, the part of him that was a child had taken comfort under the care of the castle. (He had always looked down on that little, fearful, childish part of him. Maybe that part was actually the best of him.) That was why the first thing he felt when he realized the Vanishing Cabinet was finally repaired was a flash of cold dread.

But now he knew that some part of You-Know-Who had been here all along, residing in the castle,  _ infecting _ it. 

Shame clawed its way into his gut. What right did he have to mourn the violation of Hogwarts? But rage followed quickly on its heels, bright and crackling and animating. What right did You-Know-Who have to leave his putrid, broken soul in a place that would never belong to him?

“We’ll find it,” he said breathlessly. “We’ll find it, and we’ll destroy it.”

For a moment he forgot the spell that kept him trapped, forgot Potter and the night on the astronomy tower, forgot his own petty fears. He thought only of Hogwarts, of Ginny and Luna under its roof, of all the students and professors within its four walls, and of what awaited so many of them if You-Know-Who rose to full power.

He might not be able to stop You-Know-Who, might not be able to save the Muggleborns and all the others who would die, might not be able to undo all the wrong he had done. But he could destroy the horcrux. He could protect the one, last safe place. All the people he had hurt— they deserved that at least.

“Can you tell us where it is?” Ginny asked. “A— a hint, maybe?”

The Gray Lady looked from Draco to Ginny with something close to pity on her face, as if she already knew they would fail, and thought them naive for trying. This made Draco’s blood boil, and it was all he could do to stop from shouting at her.

“You’ve been there before,” she said. “You’ve all been there before, I can feel its energy on you. This castle was built to meet its students needs. It shifts, it accommodates in subtle ways. The place where the diadem is hidden— that is the castle’s heart, a changeable heart. A heart that will give anyone what they need, if they only know how to ask.”

Draco glanced at his companions. Ginny’s mouth hung open, and Luna’s eyes had widened to nearly inhuman dimensions. His own heart fluttered madly in his chest. Of course. It was hidden someplace that no clean soul would know to look for it. The heart of the castle, that would deliver a practice room to students who needed a practice room, a peaceful hearth to students who longed for a peaceful hearth. And a place to stow secrets for students who had things better kept hidden.

“Thank you,” Draco murmured to the ghost. “Thank you. We— we have to go.”


	10. Amends

He thundered down the narrow staircase, Ginny and Luna close at his heels. They ran all the way down the tower, spilling out into the corridor, and Draco would have kept running all the way to the seventh floor, but Ginny called out,

“Wait!” and he stopped. Turning, he saw Luna leaning against the wall, face bright pink, and Ginny panting heavily with her hands on her knees. He realized that he, too, was having trouble getting air, and he stumbled over to the girls. “Don’t you think,” Ginny began. “Don’t you think— we should at least— talk about this first?”

“It’s in the Room of Requirement,” Draco panted, leaning against the wall beside Luna. “It’s there.”

“I know,” Ginny said, straightening. “But shouldn’t we decide what we’re going to do? It could be dangerous.”

“It will be dangerous,” Luna said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “No one would leave their soul lying around without protection. And You-Know-Who is a very powerful wizard.”

“It could be cursed. Like that necklace Katie Bell got hold of.”

The reminder of Katie Bell sent a sharp stab of guilt through Draco, and he felt Luna’s eyes on him. He’d told her about all of his failed attempts to hurt Dumbledore, but Ginny had only gotten a shortened version of things. He remembered, too, that Ginny was one of Katie’s teammates. But now wasn’t the time for making that particular confession.

“Maybe we can attack it first,” Draco said. “If we can even find it. You know, we won’t touch it or anything. As soon as we see it, we can use fiendfyre.”

“We shouldn’t use fiendfyre,” Luna said. “It’s too dangerous. Basilisk venom would be better.”

“Oh, of course, I’ll just go grab one of the basilisk fangs I have lying around my dorm, then.”

“Draco,” Ginny said sharply.

Draco swallowed and turned away from them. The surge of righteous anger that had overtaken him in the tower was slowly leaking away, and in its place was sick, awful shame. He wanted to retreat to the Slytherin dormitories, hide behind the hangings of his bed, let the days pass by without change until he wasted away to nothing. That was what he deserved. He had been so eager to chase down the horcrux as if that would redeem him, free him not just from the spell but from the vise of his own self hatred. But that wouldn’t do anything to change the past. Ginny’s remark about Katie reminded him that he would never be able to live in a world where he hadn’t imperiused and poisoned and crucioed and— 

“Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help anyone.” Luna’s voice cut through the muck of his thoughts, clear and calm and just a little cold. It was as if she had read his mind. He turned back to face her, his cheeks burning. The sight of Luna’s thoughtful face and Ginny’s clouded one forced him to look away, blinking the sting out of his eyes. 

“I know,” he said softly, though he didn’t know. 

“Is that what’s the matter?” Ginny said. “Look, we wouldn’t be helping you if we thought you were a lost cause. We’re going to find that horcrux, Draco. We’re going to find it and destroy it. We just have to figure out how.” 

Draco forced himself to look at her. Her brown eyes blazed with conviction, and the ferocity of her belief that they would succeed burned through him like firewhiskey. He nodded, and turned to Luna, but she was too busy looking at Ginny.

“I know,” he said. He wasn’t sure he did know, but it helped to say it. He realized, more fully than ever, that he would never have been able to do this alone. 

What a relief it was to realize that, and to realize that he didn’t have to.

“I don’t want to wait,” he said, after a long silence. “I don’t want to rest, or think on it. I want to do it today.”

“We can try,” Ginny said. “We can look for it, at least.”

Draco nodded. “Yes. Let’s look.”

They walked to the Room of Requirement in silence. Draco led the way, but he turned every now and then to make sure Ginny and Luna were behind him, though he could hear their footsteps and knew they were. 

At the entrance, Draco thought what he always thought.  _ Show me the room with the Vanishing Cabinet. _ Three passes, and the door appeared.

Once all three of them were inside the room, they stood facing the enormous expanse of stuff.

“We should split up,” Ginny said. “Like last time. Except this time we’ll go down all of the passageways, starting from the left. Left to right.”

“We have to be thorough,” Draco said, his heart sinking as he contemplated the sheer vastness of the room. Passages leading off passages, things stacked on things, buried in drawers and cabinets. “It could take forever.”

“Do we even know what we’re looking for?” Ginny said, as if it had only just occurred to her.

“Of course,” Luna said. “It’s a diadem. Like a crown. Although my father believes it would have been much more intricate than a regular crown. It probably had dozens of components, so it might look a bit odd.”

Draco exchanged a doubtful look with Ginny.

“A crown then,” he said. “Anything that’s even remotely a crown.”

“We should shoot up red sparks if we find anything.”

“Do you think…” Draco began. “Do you think we’ll know it’s a horcrux when we see it? Do you think we’ll be able to tell?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny said softly. At the same time, Luna said,

“Yes.” Both Draco and Ginny turned to her. “My mother said all magic leaves a trace. When the magic is very powerful, you can feel it.”

Draco wasn’t sure he liked that answer. 

The three of them split up and went their separate ways down the three passages closest to the left of the room. Draco took the passage that was second from the left, and immediately ran into a problem. The path split in two directions, neither of which seemed to connect to either Ginny or Luna’s path. He hesitated for a moment, then cast a marking spell over the right hand path so he would remember to explore it later, and headed to the left. 

It was slow-going. Some parts of the path were easy to search. A large bookshelf occupied only by spiders took just a few seconds to clear, and a quick lumos revealed that there was no crown inside any of a row of dirty, ancient clogs. But too much of the accumulated contraband took far longer. Draco dug through a mound of textbooks so old that covers and pages came off in his hands, overturned a bowl of magical bubbles that floated to the ceiling and filled the air with the scent of wet dog, and peered into every nook and cranny of an old apothecary cabinet. He was reminded to be careful when he stuck his hand into the crack between two pieces of furniture and felt sharp teeth sink into his thumb. He pulled his hand back with a cry and prayed whatever bit him hadn’t been poisonous.

Finally, after what felt like interminable hours, a silvery shape materialized in front of Draco and spoke with Ginny’s voice.

“Time for a break,” it said. “Meet back at the entrance.”

The Patronus dissolved and Draco heaved a sigh of relief. He cast another marking spell to remind him where he had left off, and headed back the way he had come.

When he reached the entrance, he found Ginny standing with her arms crossed, covered head to toe in dust, and Luna looking quite clean and cheerful.

“There has to be an easier way,” Ginny said, as soon as Draco was within earshot. “This is horrible.”

“You’re telling me,” Draco said, showing her the bite marks on his hand. Luna stepped forward and muttered a quick healing spell, and Draco’s skin closed over neatly. “Thanks,” he said, startled at the neatness of the spellwork. He hadn’t realized Luna had a knack for healing. Turning back to Ginny, he said, “I know it’s awful, but I don’t think there’s any other way. ‘Accio’ doesn’t work in here, and it really could be anywhere.”

“At least we’ve already searched some of the pathways,” Luna said. “When we were looking for the potions book.”

“Not very thoroughly,” Draco sighed. “I think we’ll have to search them again. We weren’t looking for a crown that time, we might have missed it.”

“I was thorough,” Luna said. “If I saw a diadem except for the rusty old tiara on the bust of Maronium the Peevish, I would have remembered.”

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said, rounding on Luna. “A diadem except for  _ what? _ ”

“The old tiara. Didn’t you see it? It was right over the cabinet that the potions book was in.”

“Do you mean to say,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “That you saw a crown last time, and you remembered it, but you decided not to tell us about it?”

“Well, it can’t be the diadem,” Luna said, as if Draco were being particularly thick. “It didn’t have any extra apparatuses at all, not even a Wrackspurt siphon.”

“Luna,” Ginny cried, and Draco expected her to express some of the same excruciating exasperation he was feeling. Instead, she threw her arms around Luna. “You’re a genius!”

Luna’s face turned a brilliant shade of pink. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, and accepted the hug stiffly. 

“All right, all right,” Draco said. “Yes, that’s wonderful, but maybe we can go find the diadem now?” 

“Yes,” Ginny said, somewhat breathlessly, pulling away from Luna. Draco was surprised to see little spots of color on her cheeks as well. “Yes, let’s go look for it.”

Draco and Ginny hurried down the path where Luna had found the potions book, while Luna herself lagged a bit behind, muttering about the fruitlessness of their mission. Draco ignored her. He could feel his heartbeat tripping in his throat, and it was all he could do not to break into a flat out run.  He felt as though the horcrux were in his grasp.

He glimpsed the be-wigged head of a fussy old bust, and skidded to a halt. There was the blistered cabinet, still ajar from when Luna took the book, and above it, the likeness of an ugly wizard wearing a wig and a tarnished silver tiara. He reached for it with trembling hands, but Ginny said,

“Don’t.” 

She was right. Draco approached the bust instead, and leaned close to read the faint inscription on the diadem. He knew what it was before he saw the words. The moment he drew close, a chill settled in the pit of his stomach, and dread eked its way through his veins, a horrible, drowning feeling that awakened whispering thoughts in his mind.  _ You’ll never be enough, Draco. You’ve hurt everyone, betrayed everyone. There’s nothing left for you.  _ He recognized that feeling, those voices, all too well. All through the year, his fear and misery had increased whenever he entered the Room of Requirement. He had thought it was because the Vanishing Cabinet was there, and that was probably part of it. But there was this, too. The horcrux that had been seeping joy from him like a dementor every time he came too close. 

“‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,’” he read aloud, stepping quickly back.

“Merlin,” Ginny breathed. “What— what do we do?”

Draco was spared from answering by Luna, who had caught up to them and leaned in to examine the diadem herself. After a long moment she drew back with a shudder.

“I suppose father might have been wrong about the details,” she said in a slightly tremulous voice.

“We can’t just leave it here,” Ginny said, looking around as if someone might suddenly appear to steal the diadem from under their noses. “We have to take it somewhere to destroy it. Not here.”

Not in the Room of Requirement, she meant. It would be dangerous to destroy, and there was the potential that whatever powerful magic they used would wreak havoc on their surroundings. They needed somewhere controlled, safe. Somewhere perfectly tailored to the task.

“I have an idea,” Draco said. He cast about for something to use to handle the diadem, and caught sight of a chessboard with a grimy cloth bag on top of it. The bag’s contents clattered when he picked it up, and he dumped a full chess set onto the board. The pieces complained loudly about being manhandled, but Draco ignored them. He took the bag and, careful not to let any of the metal touch his hand, scooped the diadem inside. Ginny let out a small gasp as he did so, but nothing happened. “We have to take it outside,” he said.

“But where?”

“Just wait,” Draco said.

They made their way out of the Room of Requirement in grim silence. Out in the corridor, Draco felt he should hide the bag from view, though there was no one around.  _ I’m holding a horcrux in the middle of Hogwarts _ , he thought. It was bizarre. Wrong. Somewhere in the castle, students were hurrying to class, or— no, it was later than that. Eating in the Great Hall, perhaps, or heading back to their dormitories. They were a world away from Draco, separated by a spell and a life’s worth of knowledge and pain. He wondered, briefly, if that was how Potter felt.

“All right,” he said, turning his attention back to the task at hand. “We need to all think the same thing.  _ We need a place to safely destroy a horcrux _ .” 

“But how are we going to destroy it?” Ginny asked. “I’m pretty sure the room’s magic draws a line at manifesting basilisk fangs.”

“We’ll use fiendfyre,” Draco said grimly. “I’ve seen it used, and I’ve been taught to use it. Just practicing,” he added quickly. “Not...on anyone.” He couldn’t say, however, that he’d never  _ seen _ it used on anyone. A crisp, clear night, the Dark Lord arriving at their door, saying it was time for a lesson, apparating Draco to a house, a cottage at the edge of a wood where somewhere inside a pair of young witches were bustling around the kitchen, just visible through the window…

“Are you sure you can control it?” Ginny asked.

“With the room’s help,” he said, and she nodded. 

Without another word, Draco stepped forward, holding his desire in his head.  _ We need a place to safely destroy a horcrux. We need a place… _

The door appeared, and he reached for the handle before he had a chance to doubt himself.

Inside, the room had transformed completely. No longer vast and cluttered, it was now small and almost entirely empty. The floor was dirt, and the ceiling high and barely visible. In the center of the room, a low brick wall formed a circle like a circus ring, about as large as one of the tubs in the Prefect’s bathroom. There was nothing different about the inside of the ring, except that when Draco tried to put his hand over the wall, he was rebuffed by a stiff wall of enchantments. It was a containment. He circled the wall, looking for some way in, and found a gate that swung open at his touch.

At that moment, Luna entered the room, and Draco looked up just in time to see her freeze in the entrance, color draining from her face.

“Luna?” he said, moving towards her. “Are you all right?”

Luna’s shoulders drooped slightly, and she turned to him with sadness in her deep eyes. “It reminds me of my mother’s workspace,” she said. “She used a containment ring like that to work with unstable spells.”

Draco looked away, uncertain how to respond. Luckily, Ginny entered and spared him the difficulty. She took one look at the layout of the room, and reached for Luna’s hand. 

“I didn’t realize…” she said, but Luna shook her head.

“It’s okay. It’s good, isn’t it? I know how it’s used.” She dropped Ginny’s hand and walked past Draco, around the circle to the gate. “One of us brings the horcrux in here.”

“I’ll do it,” Draco said at once.

“You just have to put it in the circle and leave it. Then you cast the spell through there.” Luna pointed to the part of the ring opposite the door. Draco followed her finger and saw a tiny hole, roughly the diameter of a wand, in the wall.

“How can you cast a spell through that?” he asked. “There’s no mobility. It will throw off the wrist motions.” Fiendfyre, he remembered, required a vicious sort of swiping motion— not unlike a killing curse. He shivered as the memories of his lessons, both with Bellatrix and the Dark Lord, crowded closer, threatening to invade the present. He pushed them firmly away and focused on the weight of the bag in his hand.  _ This isn’t the same _ .

“It’s not perfect,” Luna said. “It’s quite difficult, in fact. You have to be very precise with your incantation and intention to make up for the lack of movement.” Her voice remained steady, but she didn’t meet Draco’s eye. He wondered if this had something to do with what had happened to her mother— a lack of precision, a tiny error.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, clutching the bag tighter. He sounded far more confident than he felt. He hadn’t cast fiendfyre in months, and even then the Dark Lord had been standing behind him to vanish the spell every time it went awry. Draco didn’t know what spell the Dark Lord had used to vanish his failed attempts. He could only hope that the containment ring held.

He strode forward, pushing gently past Luna and entering the ring through the gate. Every hair on his body stood on end as he passed through the powerful wards. Once inside the circle, everything on the outside seemed perfectly normal, as if there were nothing but air between himself and his companions. But that wasn’t true. He could feel the power of the spells that were made to keep the magic in, to turn it back on itself rather than let it rampage free.

His breath shallow, Draco crouched in the center of the circle and carefully dumped the contents of the bag into the dirt. The tiara landed with a small thump and lay, innocuous, on the ground. Draco stared at it for a moment, at the gleam of the untarnished patches of silver, at the delicate curl of the inscription winding around the band. It was beautiful, really— one of the most important and powerful objects in magical history. But he could feel its corruption, too, coiling in the pit of his stomach.  _ You’re going to fail.  _

“No,” Draco murmured. “No, I’m not.” He got to his feet and left the circle, the empty bag clutched in his hand. Once outside of the ring, he closed the gate and made sure it was securely fastened. He straightened, and looked to Luna. She stared resolutely back at him, a faint shimmer in her eye. He smiled. 

“Thank you, Luna,” he said, and he hoped she knew that he meant for everything. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing gently before she let it go. Draco moved past her to the far end of the ring, and knelt down beside the hole in the wall.

This was it. Either he would succeed, or he would fail. He might kill them all. Would they truly die, or wake up the next morning as if nothing had happened? He might destroy the horcrux, and realize it wasn’t enough. Or, he might be freed from this spell. He wasn’t sure which outcome frightened him more.

But no— that was no longer true. He had no idea what awaited him when time began to progress again. But he knew that Ginny and Luna were trapped with him— as were countless other people who had no idea what was happening. How far did the spell extend? Just to Hogwarts? Over all of England? He had been so selfish, thinking only of his own fate. Escape or remain trapped, live or die. No matter what happened to him— if he was turned over to the Dark Lord, saved but despised, or if he somehow found a foothold in his new world— everyone else would be free. His friends would be free. And Potter, insufferable, heroic Potter, would be one step closer to destroying You-Know-Who. Voldemort.

Draco breathed in deeply, and a shimmering calm fell over him. He pulled his wand out of his robes, and slid it carefully through the hole, into the ring. The hair on his wand arm prickled, but his hand remained steady.  _ Incantation and intention _ . He took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and conjured an image in his mind. Fire, unquenchable fire. This was like an Unforgivable Curse. He really had to mean it. When Voldemort had taught him, he had told Draco to draw upon his hatred of the weak, disgusting creatures who threatened the wizarding world— mudbloods and half bloods and half-giant oafs. That feeling had risen in him like bile and spilled out in hungry, bitter, acrid flames. There was now nothing left of that to draw on, but Draco was unbothered. He knew there was more than hatred with which to fuel a flame.

He reached for the feeling he had in the tower when Helena Ravenclaw told him the horcrux was at Hogwarts. The blazing, powerful anger because Hogwarts was in danger, because Ginny and Luna were in danger. He looked up and saw their faces— watching him with resolve, with fear, with radiating warmth.  _ You don’t get to hurt my friends. _ He closed his eyes and held their faces in his mind. It would be like conjuring a Patronus, but not to protect— to destroy.

He spoke the incantation clearly, pouring his intention into every syllable. There was a rushing sound that reminded Draco of the air in his face when he sped towards the snitch on his broomstick, and heat wafted across his hand. He drew his wand back and opened his eyes.

The entire containment ring had been transformed into a ball of writhing flame. Monsters rose from the inferno, faces baring teeth and forked tongues. They pressed against the invisible wall of the wards and retreated in a maelstrom of fire only to be replaced by new, more terrifying creatures. Draco stumbled backwards, horrified by his own creation. 

A new face burst forward from the flames, not a monster, but not quite human either.  _ Voldemort _ . Draco’s blood turned to ice, and he curled in on himself, pressing back against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut.  _ No, no, not him. I can’t face him _ .

_ You always were a coward, Draco _ , a high, sibilant voice hissed in his mind. Or was it in the room, filling the space so entirely that it was both in and outside of Draco? He opened his eyes a fraction and saw Voldemort’s face leering at him from the flames. But as soon as he saw it the face changed, shifted, and it became a scene. People, tall and staring down at Draco, all of them with that same awful leer on their faces. There was Dumbledore, stately and fearsome; Ginny and Luna, arms linked; Professor McGonagall and Remus Lupin and even Sirius Black who he had only seen in pictures. And, of course, standing in front of them all was Potter. 

_ You thought we could ever forgive you? _ They spoke as one, their voices awful and resounding.  _ You thought you were worth even a moment of our attention? You are nothing, Draco. Pathetic. Weak.  _ Something shifted, and the crowd vanished, replaced by his parents. They stood side by side, elegant, power radiating off them. His father smirked, and his mother shook her head in slow disappointment.  _ We always knew you would let us down _ .

Draco buried his head in his arms. A sob escaped him, wrenched from his body as the voices surrounded him, pressing in on his skull.

“Draco!” This new voice, raw and human, barely carried over the roar of the flames. But it cut through the fog of his nightmare, and for a moment he became aware of his surroundings. The fire roared and crackled, but it didn’t escape. He glanced around and caught sight of Luna, crouching and holding her hands up to shield her face. He couldn’t see Ginny anywhere.

_ We need it to end _ , he thought.  _ I don’t know how to stop it _ . If only he had learned the counter-charm that Voldemort had used…

But just as he thought it, there was a great sucking sound like the drain being pulled from an enormous bath, and the fire began to shrink. It continued to hurl itself against the wards, a swirling fiery bubble, but the bubble was growing smaller. Draco could see it shrinking. As it shrank the voices shrank too. The figures in the flames flickered, first his parents, then Voldemort, then the members of the Order, all pounding their fists against the wards. But the wards were growing smaller, reining the fire in as they shrank. Before too long Draco could see Ginny on the other side of the flames, her back pressed against the wall and a look of pure awe on her face.  _ It’s finished _ , he thought, and the horcrux’s conjured images vanished from the flames.

Draco forced himself to stand and darted across the room to Luna, reaching for her, pulling her to her feet.

“It’s okay,” he gasped. “Look.”

She clung to him, peering at the fire over his shoulder. “Oh,” she said, and her grip on his robes loosened. The bubble pressed inward, growing smaller than the ring itself, until the flames were no larger than a bonfire, then a hearth, then— 

There was a quiet  _ pop _ and a thin plume of smoke drifted up to the ceiling. The fiendfyre was gone.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, Ginny let out an outrageous whoop that made Draco jump.

“Bloody hell,” she cried. “That was amazing!”

Luna let out a shaky laugh, and Draco started to laugh too. Before long all three of them were giggling hysterically. Ginny stumbled over to join them and grabbed onto Luna, and they all clung to each other for support, weak with laughter and the adrenaline leaving their bodies. Finally, when the hysteria passed and the plume of smoke had vanished, Draco detached himself from his friends and stepped towards the circle. He leaned over the ring without any problem; the wards were gone. There, in the center of the circle, was a blackened hunk of metal. It had split in two, and inky blood oozed onto the dirt floor. Draco knew at once that it was dead. The horcrux was destroyed.

For a long moment he just stared at it. His whole body felt weak and his legs trembled, but he didn’t think he had ever felt better. Pure relief descended on him, and it made him almost giddy. Then, he remembered the horcrux’s voice.

“Did...did you hear what it said?” Draco asked, unable to bring himself to turn around. There was a long silence. He imagined Ginny and Luna were exchanging looks behind his back. He closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears.

“No,” Ginny said finally. “We didn’t hear anything.”

He knew she was lying, but he had never been more grateful to be deceived.

When he opened his eyes and saw the broken horcrux once more, he knew what he had to do.


	11. Iterum Vivere

Out in the corridor, night had fallen. When Draco passed a grandfather clock on a staircase, he saw that it was half past ten. There was time. 

He kept walking, stopping only when he reached the portrait of the dozing fat lady. In all his years at Hogwarts, he had never crossed this particular threshold. He was sure there would be a commotion as soon as he stepped inside. It didn’t matter. There was just one person he needed to see.

He whispered the password Ginny had given him, and entered.

The Gryffindor common room was mostly empty at this hour, with a few students hunched over textbooks in corners. No one even looked up as he climbed out of the portrait hole. Three people sat in the chairs closest to the fire, their backs to Draco. He saw one cluster of brown curls, one shock of red, and one head of tousled dark hair. He strode up behind the latter, and stopped.

“Potter,” he said. All three of them whirled around at his voice, and Potter’s face transfigured instantly from confusion to malice. He fumbled for his wand.

“What are you doing here?” he spat. Heads were turning around the common room; Draco didn’t have much time. He reached into the bag in his hands and pulled out the two broken halves of the diadem, its inky blood dripping onto his hands.

“This was one of Voldemort’s horcruxes,” he said. “I’ve destroyed it.”

Potter’s face remained frozen in its mask of hatred, looking from the diadem to Draco. It was Granger who moved first, reaching out and taking the diadem from Draco.

“Oh my God,” she murmured. “Harry...this is Ravenclaw’s diadem. The lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. And...Merlin.”

Weasley looked wildly back and forth from Granger to Draco in a way that would have been comical in other circumstances. But Draco was barely paying attention. He was focused on Potter, the only one who mattered. Wordlessly, Potter took the diadem from Hermione and held it up to the light. Its black blood trickled down his wrist, and he lifted it to his face as if to smell it.

“It’s just like…” he murmured. “The diary.” Draco had no idea what he meant, but Potter’s expression slid from one of hatred to one of shock. There was a glimmer of something else, too, in his green eyes. “This...is this what you’ve been doing all year?”

Draco swallowed. There was too much to explain, too much to confess and amend. 

“We have to take it to Dumbledore,” Granger whispered. “At once.”

Potter nodded. He looked down at the diadem in his hands, his face hardening with resolve. Then he looked back up at Draco.

“You’re coming too.”

Draco didn’t protest. He let them drag him up to the headmaster’s office, the tip of Potter’s wand pressing into his spine. All four of them were silent as they rode the magically ascending staircase. When Potter knocked, the headmaster’s cool voice called,

“Enter.”

Draco’s heart began to pound. Had the spell broken? Was this day going to continue on into the next, the horcrux destroyed? Or would it…? He couldn’t let himself imagine that eventuality. He didn’t have the fight left in him. 

They shuffled into Dumbledore’s office, an awkward group, Potter hovering too close behind Draco as if afraid he would make a dive for his wand, which was gripped tightly in Granger’s fist. Dumbledore sat at his desk, examining a roll of parchment. He looked up when they entered, and his eyes roved over the three Gryffindors, the Slytherin they held captive, and the diadem clutched in Potter’s free hand.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, pleasantly, as though he were greeting Draco at a dinner party. “Am I to take this to mean that you have abandoned your feeble attempts to kill me?”

Potter dug his wand even harder into Draco’s back. “What? Malfoy tried to kill you?”

“It all makes sense,” Granger breathed, rushing forward. “Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t see it! The cursed necklace…” 

“May I ask that you please release Mr. Malfoy and allow him to speak for himself?” Dumbledore said. Potter hesitated— Draco felt it— but then the pressure disappeared from his back and he was pushed forward so he stumbled closer to Dumbledore. 

“Sit,” Dumbledore said, and he conjured four cushy armchairs in the center of the room. Draco sat, but the three Gryffindors hung back.

“Sir,” Potter said, his voice straining with the effort of holding back what Draco assumed was a barrage of much less polite questions. “Has he really been trying to kill you? Is that what he’s been sneaking around for?”

“Why don’t you all have a seat,” Dumbledore said. He stared pointedly at Potter, Granger, and Weasley until they obeyed. “Now,” he said. “Why don’t we allow Mr. Malfoy to answer that question for himself.”

All eyes turned to Draco. For a moment, all words fled from his mind. He could feel his pulse in his skull and his throat. After wielding fiendfyre against a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul, this should be easy. But facing Potter was infinitely worse. 

He closed his eyes, and imagined he was elsewhere. He imagined himself in the quiet space the Room of Requirement had conjured for him, and imagined Ginny and Luna were the only people who could hear him. Keeping his eyes closed, he began to speak. 

He was interrupted more times than he could count. Mostly the interruptions were angry outbursts from Potter, who seemed like he would rather be cursing Draco into oblivion than hearing him out. Some of the interruptions came from Granger, who seemed to piece things together faster than anyone else, and couldn’t help trying to finish Draco’s sentences. She also shot Potter a dirty look anytime anyone mentioned the potions book. Weasley interrupted only one time, when Draco revealed that Ginny had helped him break Potter’s enchantment. “My  _ sister _ ?” he said. 

Through it all, Draco focused on Dumbledore. The old man’s gaze was unrelenting, impossible to hide from, but it was also remarkably steadying. When his throat tightened or his eyes began to burn, he looked at Dumbledore, and he knew that the headmaster was listening to him. Listening not just to his words but to everything between and beneath them.  _ Seeing _ him. 

When Draco finally finished, there was a long, heavy silence. Towards the end, Potter and his friends had stopped interrupting. They listened quietly as he spoke of destroying the horcrux. He described the fiendfyre, but not what he saw in it.

“I suppose now the thing to do is wait,” Dumbledore said after the silence had stretched on uncomfortably long. “If my understanding of the spell— and its creator—” he winked subtly at Draco, who hadn’t mentioned Snape at all— “are correct, then I believe your actions should have been sufficient to free us all from what I’m sure has been quite a tedious day. But we shall just have to wait until midnight to find out.”

“It’s eleven fifteen,” Granger said.

“Wonderful. If we all still retain a memory of these events in forty six minutes, we can discuss our next steps. I stand by my promises of protection, Draco, though I have no memory of speaking them. We will shield you and your family, if your family is ready to make the same choices as you.”

“Sir,” Potter interrupted. “I’m sorry but— you  _ believe _ him?”

Dumbledore turned his appraising eyes on Potter. “Are you saying you do not? Did you not know of the spell in your ill-gotten potions’ book?”

Draco glanced at Potter in time to see him blush. “I— I saw the spell. But we can’t know that all of it’s true. That he’s…” he glanced furtively at Draco. “Really changed.”

“No, I suppose we can not.” Dumbledore said. “That is why we shall have to rely on trust, a remarkable quality that separates us from the followers of Voldemort.”

“That’s very admirable,” Granger said hesitantly. “But isn’t it...foolish to take someone solely at their word when we’re very nearly at war?”

Dumbledore inclined his head in her direction. “Astute as always, Ms. Granger. I can assure you we will not be taking Mr. Malfoy solely at his word. We will keep him under careful watch until such a time as his story has been confirmed and his motives ascertained. I hope you can understand the necessity of this, Draco.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Of course.”

“I still don’t get why we can’t just ‘Veritaserum’ him and get it over with,” Weasley muttered.

“It’s illegal,” Granger snapped. “And highly immoral. To be used only in the most dire of circumstances.”

“Feels pretty dire to me,” Weasley muttered.

“I would be willing to undergo questioning with Veritaserum,” Draco said. “Actually, I… I’d prefer it. I know no one’s ready to take my word yet. I’d rather they know I’m telling the truth.”

Dumbledore studied him for a moment. “That can be arranged if you so choose. A trial by Veritaserum, in my presence, and the presence of anyone else in this room, if they wish. But as you’ve happened onto some very sensitive information, I’m sorry to say a public trial is out of the question. And I must ask that you, Miss Lovegood, and Miss Weasley maintain the same level of secrecy that these three have promised. It is to our greatest advantage that Voldemort continue to believe his horcruxes an undiscovered secret.”

“Of course,” Draco said.

“But all of that is for another day. For now, we wait.”

The room lapsed into silence again. Draco stared down at his hands and realized they were trembling slightly. It had been a long, long day. He wondered where Ginny and Luna were, and ached suddenly for their presence. They believed him. They had seen it all at his side.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, but when he opened them again, Dumbledore was saying,

“Ah, the stroke of twelve.” He held up his pocketwatch, and Draco watched the planets tick around until it was midnight. Then, one minute past.

He did not wake in the Slytherin dormitory. He stayed where he was, in Dumbledore’s office, with the shattered diadem lying on the desk between them, the Golden Trio sprawled in armchairs at his side. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, “it is time for action.” 


	12. The Verdict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised...Harry is now actually in the story, and he and Draco will *gasp* interact. Perspective switching from now on :)

Harry paced back and forth in front of Grimmauld Place. The house had materialized for him as it always did, shoving aside the Muggle dwellings on either side. He knew what waited for him. Almost the entire Order of the Phoenix, for one. Most of the Weasleys. The thought of all of them inside— Lupin, Tonks, Fred, George, Mrs. and Mr. Weasley— sent a pang of longing through him. He hadn’t seen them together in so long, not since before Sirius.

That was one reason he didn’t want to set foot in the Black family home. He had meant it when he told Dumbledore that he didn’t want the place, that the Order could have it. He couldn’t imagine walking down the hallway lined with house-elf heads, stepping into the warm cave of the kitchen, without the prospect of Sirius waiting with his arms outstretched, that roguish smile on his face. A fresh wave of grief hit Harry. Every time he thought that the pain of missing his godfather had dulled to an ache, some memory would surface and thrash him with a tumbling sensation of loss as staggering as it had been in the first months after Sirius died.

But the pain alone wouldn’t have been enough to keep Harry from stepping through the door and falling into Mrs. Weasley’s embrace, from seeking out Lupin’s eyes over her shoulder and catching Tonks’s lopsided grin. No, what really kept Harry here, pacing, unable to take the few steps towards the front door of the house that, legally, belonged to him was the thought of two other people who were inside: Draco Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore. Because of those two people, nothing in Harry’s life made sense anymore.

After Malfoy appeared in the Gryffindor common room with a mutilated horcrux in his hand, after he spun his mystifying story for Dumbledore and proclaimed that he had rejected the Dark Lord and sought to take shelter with the Order, Harry had waited for someone to shout “April Fools!” Then he remembered that only Muggles celebrated that particular holiday. He had sat in stunned silence as Dumbledore, three minutes after midnight, set up an unauthorized portkey just as he had done the night Harry dreamed of Arthur Weasley’s attack, and sent Malfoy, unaccompanied, to Grimmauld Place.

“I’m sorry to send him to your home without your permission, Harry,” he said, moments after Malfoy disappeared. “But I can assure you he will be under close watch. Kingsley has already arrived to guard him, and Tonks will be there just as soon as she is able.”

Harry’s stunned silence broke. “But— but  _ sir, _ you can’t believe what he said, he’s—” Harry broke off, struggling to find the right word for what exactly Draco was. Evil? A liar? A Death Eater?

“I have been watching Mr. Malfoy closely all year,” Dumbledore said, his voice dropping to the firm tone he had used every time Harry had tried to bring up his suspicions about Malfoy. “I was aware that he had orders from the Death Eaters, perhaps from Voldemort himself, and I thought, perhaps, that an innocent soul could be salvaged from this situation if great care was taken. It is my hope that my prediction was true, and that it is an innocent soul we sent into hiding tonight. After all, there is horcrux bleeding on my desk at this very moment.” 

He turned his eyes to the broken diadem, and Harry looked at it too. That was one piece of evidence he couldn’t deny. He knew what it felt like to kill a horcrux, and to hold the husk of one, even if he hadn’t known what the diary was when he destroyed it. When he first took the diadem from Malfoy’s hands, he had known what it was with a deep gut sense of recognition. 

“But,” Dumbledore went on, “we have nothing to fear from Malfoy if he is, indeed, laying some elaborate trap for us. I do believe two fully grown wizards, both Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, should be able to keep control of a student who has yet to pass his N.E.W.T.s.”

“They can control Malfoy,” Harry said. “But what about Voldemort? What if—?”

“If Voldemort attempts to enter either Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, our wards and Fidelius Charm will hold, or they will not. There is little young Malfoy can do to influence this, as he is not Secret Keeper of anything, and he shall not be allowed outside of the Order’s sight. And,” Dumbledore went on, holding up a hand as Harry opened his mouth to retort, “it is my belief that one must occasionally take risks in the name of mercy. If Draco Malfoy is indeed to be trusted, he will become one more body standing against Voldemort instead of one more body standing with him. This may seem trivial in the midst of war, but in the not insignificant time I have been alive, I have learned that the importance of one person doing what is right is never to be underestimated.”

“And you agree, don’t you, Harry?” Hermione said. Harry nearly jumped. He had forgotten his two friends were there in the armchairs beside him. Ron looked a bit squeamish, but Hermione was sitting at the edge of her seat, a familiar light in her face. “Or, you did in the past. You cast  _ iterum vivere _ . You could have stunned Malfoy to stop him escaping, or even...even hurt him. But you didn’t.”

Harry looked down at his hands. How could he be held accountable for things he couldn’t even remember doing? Things he had done in— in an alternate timeline?

“Fine,” he said, after a long pause. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, and that all of this was going to go ahead whether he gave his permission or not. “Fine, but he said he’s willing to undergo Veritaserum. So let’s do it then.” He could hear the preemptive defiance in his voice. He chanced a look at Dumbledore, expecting to see disapproval in the headmaster’s face, but Dumbledore merely inclined his head. 

“We will speak with Mr. Malfoy now under the principle of trust. But if in a week’s time he still wishes to prove himself through a truth potion, we will grant his request.”

And with that it was over, decided. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sent off to their dormitories as if a monumental shift had not just occurred in their world.

The week after Malfoy’s confession passed in a blur. Harry and Ginny had a spectacular row in which Harry accused Ginny, rather unfairly, of siding with a Death Eater over him and, slightly more fairly, of keeping very important information to herself. Ginny, for her part, accused Harry of hiding  _ everything _ important from her  _ all the time _ . Though he argued vehemently that this was for her own protection, the accusation stuck with Harry, worming around in the back of his mind for days afterward. 

Every day, Harry ran to Dumbledore’s office between classes or in the evening to inquire after Malfoy. Each day, Dumbledore calmly informed Harry that there had been few developments. Magical probing had verified that the diadem was indeed a horcrux that had been destroyed by fiendfyre. Dumbledore questioned Luna and Ginny himself, and their stories matched Malfoy’s exactly.

“They also, I might add, gave passionate defenses of his character,” Dumbledore said. This made Harry so irrationally angry that he avoided Ginny for two days to keep himself from shouting at her.

As the days passed, Harry found it harder and harder to cling to the precious hope that Malfoy was pulling off an enormous ruse. Some part of him knew he shouldn’t hope for that; that was just a roundabout way of rooting for Voldemort. But the thought of having to look Malfoy in the face and pretend they were allies— the thought of having to one day trust or forgive him— nearly choked Harry with rage. Malfoy had it out for Harry from day one at Hogwarts. He had tormented Harry and Hermione and Ron and Neville and Luna and...the list went on. He had worked with Umbridge, helped break up Dumbledore’s Army, and he had taken the Dark Mark and pledged to kill Dumbledore himself.

At the end of the week, Malfoy underwent his trial by Veritaserum. In the end it was just him, Harry, and Dumbledore in the room. Question by question, Harry watched as Malfoy confirmed everything in the flat, even voice of a person bewitched. Question by question Harry’s last hope vanished, and his rage grew. By the time he returned to the common room that evening, he was so angry he could barely speak.

“No one’s saying you have to like him,” Hermione reminded him over and over. “You don’t even have to forgive him. You just have to trust that he can be useful for us, for our side.”

But what Hermione didn’t understand, what Harry couldn’t even bring himself to put into words, was that just letting Malfoy into the circle of people fighting Voldemort felt like a personal betrayal. The Order wasn’t just an organization— it was his family. It was the one warm thing Harry had that someone like Malfoy— a privileged wizard with parents who loved him and a home to return to every holiday— could never have. A collection of people who Harry loved, who loved him in return, not because of his name or what he had done as a baby, but because of who he was. At least, he hoped that was true. 

It already wounded him that Ginny and Luna had turned so quickly to trusting Harry’s nemesis, his bully. It wounded him that Dumbledore had known about Malfoy’s plans all along and still considered him an innocent soul. What about all the souls who were actually innocent, who Malfoy had carelessly harmed along the way, like Katie Bell and Ron? 

_ What about me? _ said a small voice in the back of his head, a voice small enough to fit in a cupboard under the stairs. The idea of Malfoy being welcomed, even warily, into the one place that Harry knew was truly his was nearly unbearable.

So Harry couldn’t bring himself to cross the threshold of Grimmauld Place, where Dumbledore had summoned the Order to hear his final verdict on the fate of Draco Malfoy. The door to the house he owned had become an insurmountable obstacle.

A loud crack split the air a few feet from Harry, and he flinched before he realized it was the sound of apparation. Hermione and Ron had appeared on the street, Ron still clutching Hermione’s arm from the sidealong.

“Harry,” Hermione said, striding towards him and shaking off Ron’s hand. “You’re still out here?”

Harry had finished classes earlier than the other two, and Dumbledore had arranged a portkey for him that departed half an hour before Ron and Hermione were scheduled to arrive. The portkey, a rusted Muggle car key, still lay at his feet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” Harry said, looking over Hermione’s shoulder at Ron. Ron shared a sympathetic grimace. He, at least, had remained loyal, telling Harry in hushed tones that it was “bang out of order” that everyone was so ready to accept Malfoy as a convert. He refused to chime in on Harry’s arguments with Ginny, Hermione, or Dumbledore, however, claiming that it was useless to fight. “They’ve all made up their minds, haven’t they?” It was true, but that didn’t mean Harry was going to stop fighting it.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her voice far too understanding. “I know it’s hard.”

He swallowed a sharp retort. She didn’t know, not really. None of them did.

“They’ll be starting soon,” she said, laying a tentative hand on Harry’s arm. Ron came up on Harry’s other side and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Best get it over with, mate.”

Harry closed his eyes for a second, savoring a familiar combination of irritation and comfort at his friends’ clumsy attempts to soothe him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

Grimmauld Place was deathly still. Nothing moved in the corridor, not even the horrible screaming portrait of Mrs. Black, who was, thankfully, asleep. As they drew further into the house, however, Harry could hear faint voices. They turned a corner and found someone standing guard outside the drawing room. It took Harry a moment in the dim light to recognize Remus Lupin.

“Harry,” Remus said, casting a silent lumos. The pale wandlight fell over Harry’s former professor, highlighting his scarred face and thinning brown hair. His smile was as warm as ever, though. The sight made Harry’s throat burn. Usually, he shook Lupin’s hand when he saw him. This time, he stepped forward with his arms outstretched and embraced the man, almost burying his face in the jumper collar poking out of Lupin’s robes. Lupin froze for an instant, then reciprocated the hug with even greater force, as if he were holding onto Harry for dear life. This was the first time they were seeing each other since the night at the Ministry. Since Sirius’s death. 

When they pulled apart their eyes met for a moment, Lupin’s glistening with tears, and Harry felt Sirius’s name pass between them as clearly as if it had been spoken. He wondered if they might talk about it someday, if Lupin might tell him more about what Sirius and James had been like when they were young. They had had so little time to talk.

“Everyone else is inside,” Lupin said, gesturing to the drawing room with his wand. “I’m keeping watch.” Harry nodded and made to enter, but Lupin grabbed his arm. “And Harry,” he said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Actually, let me rephrase that. Don’t do anything your father  _ would _ do. Or your godfather, for that matter.”

Harry was torn between a desire to argue, and a sudden urge to laugh. The corner of Lupin’s mouth quirked, and he let go of Harry’s arm.

“Go on in, then.”

Harry did, as Hermione and Ron murmured their greetings to Lupin behind him. Inside, the drawing room was packed with people. There was Kingsley Shacklebolt, cutting an elegant figure by the fire in purple business robes, not far from Tonks, whose hair was blue for the occasion. Mrs. Weasley stood in a corner, whispering urgently with a man in a turban who Harry didn’t recognize, and Fred and George lounged on a very ugly velvet sofa. There were more people Harry didn’t know, but his gaze slid past them to the front of the room where three men stood in front of the tapestry of the Black family tree. One was Albus Dumbledore, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes roving the ceiling as if he were admiring the architecture. On the other end stood Severus Snape, looking quite put out. The appearance of the potions master surprised Harry. He knew Dumbledore had reiterated his trust in Snape, despite what Malfoy told them had happened on the Astronomy Tower, but he hadn’t expected Snape to be  _ here _ . He didn’t linger long on the thought, however, because standing between the two Hogwarts professors was Draco Malfoy.

He stood with his hands at his sides, staring straight ahead at nothing, chin ever so slightly raised. His eyes were cool and distant, his jaw defiantly set. Though he still wore his school robes, which looked a bit rumpled now, his hair was perfectly coiffed. The sight of him standing there, not a trace of remorse on his face, sent burning spears of hatred through Harry. 

“Oh, Harry!” A cry from Mrs. Weasley pulled Harry’s attention, and he realized he had been clenching his fists at his side.

“Mrs. Weasley,” he said, loosening his hands. She bustled forward through the press of people and pulled him straight into a hug. For a moment, Harry lost himself in the smell of wool and the particular spicy, flowery scent of the Burrow. Then he pulled away and let Mrs. Weasley look him up and down.

“You look tired,” she said finally, patting his cheek. “But I can only imagine, with what you’ve been going through.” 

Harry wasn’t sure if she meant Malfoy’s secret plotting, N.E.W.T level classes, or just the general stress of being the Chosen One, so he just smiled and told her how nice it was to see her. The Weasley twins greeted him next with ebullient handshakes. Leaning in, Fred said,

“Glad we got the invite to this.”

“We’re trying to figure out how to slip him a Puking Pastille,” George added with a wink. Harry’s smile was quite genuine. It was good to know that at least two people were here to enjoy Malfoy’s humiliation rather than celebrate his sudden transformation.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks called from across the room. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione found a place to stand at the back of the room, behind Fred and George’s couch and directly across from Malfoy.

“What’s Snape doing here?” Ron whispered.

“I have no idea,” Hermione said, but Harry could tell from the furrow that appeared in her brow that the cogs of her mind were working.

Harry caught Dumbledore’s eye, and the headmaster inclined his head. Harry looked away.

“Well then,” Dumbledore said. His voice was quiet, but it carried straight through the chatter, and everyone fell silent at once. “It seems that everyone who expressed an intention of attending this gathering has arrived, so we shall begin. Severus, if you wouldn’t mind—”

The door swung suddenly open, banging against the far wall and causing an old witch in a frumpy purple hat to jump back in alarm.

“Wait,” Ginny Weasley said, rushing into the room with Luna at her heels. “Don’t start!”

A shocked murmur passed through the room, and Mrs. Weasley hissed, “Ginevra!” Malfoy’s eyes darted to Ginny and Luna, and something bright flashed across his face, then was quickly stifled. 

“I— I know you said we couldn’t come,” Ginny said to Dumbledore, lifting her chin. “But we went through everything with Draco, and it doesn’t make any sense to keep us away.”

_ She called him Draco _ . Harry felt slightly nauseous. He knew that blazing look on Ginny’s face. When she was truly passionate about something, it shone through every part of her body. It was one of the things that most drew him to her. And now she was effervescent in her defense of Draco Malfoy.

“If I recall you already asked my permission to attend this afternoon,” Dumbledore said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “and I told you no.” Ginny opened her mouth again, but Dumbledore wasn’t finished. “However, as you have gone to the trouble of finding your way here, which must have required a great deal of illegal travel and the help of at least one Order member, I find I don’t quite have the heart to turn you away.” 

For a moment, Ginny’s mouth hung open. Then she clamped it shut and, with dignity, said, “Thank you, sir.” She motioned to Luna and they found a place to stand near the door. Luna gave Harry a little wave and he pretended he didn’t see.

“Now,” Dumbledore said. “If there are no more last minute interruptions, I shall begin.” He waited for silence to fall. “Draco Malfoy is here today because he wishes to join the Order of the Phoenix. In exchange for our protection, he offers any and all information he has about Voldemort and the Death Eaters, as well as any service he can provide in the fight against Voldemort. I have accepted his offer.”

Harry’s skin flashed cold. The room broke out in murmurs, and Fred made a loud noise of disgust.

“I would like to emphasize,” Dumbledore said, slightly louder than before, “that Mr. Malfoy is not to be harassed, nor is his location to be revealed or his safety put at unnecessary risk. We are not the Death Eaters. For those who are not moved by forgiveness or mercy, remember that Mr. Malfoy is a valuable ally who will do much more for us alive than dead. Now, I believe that he has a few words to say himself.”

Dumbledore stepped back, nodding to Malfoy, who looked slightly ill. When he spoke, his voice had the slightest of tremors.

“This past year was the worst of my life,” he said. “I know that doesn’t mean much, considering what I’ve done. But...I know what You-Know-Who is capable of. He breaks people. He finds what matters to them and he holds it hostage, or destroys it. That’s how he controls people. He considers it his strength, but I think it’s a weakness. That’s how he’ll lose people.” He paused, and a heavy silence filled the break in his words. “I hope you will give me the opportunity to earn your trust,” Malfoy said. Then he looked down at his feet, evidently done speaking.

A discomfited murmur moved through the Order. To Harry’s horror, he saw appreciative looks appearing on people’s faces. Even George looked thoughtful. 

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said, stepping forward again. “There are a few more matters to attend to: firstly, at this time, we will grant Mr. Malfoy residence here, at Grimmauld Place, which Mr. Potter has so kindly offered to the Order as a headquarters to use as we see fit.”

He nodded at Harry, and Harry forced a smile on his face as the room turned to look at him. It felt like a grimace. He didn’t miss the subtle reminder of his promise to let the Order use the house, a warning that he couldn’t simply turn Malfoy out on the streets.

“Mr. Malfoy will be allowed freedom of movement, but will be advised to remain in the house for his own protection. As for Mr. Malfoy’s parents, Narcissa and Lucius: if they are located, we will grant them protection at a location kept under Fidelius Charm whose location will be known only to myself and to Mr. Malfoy, if they accept this offer. Because Narcissa and Lucius have not willingly denounced their master or pledged their loyalty to us, they will not be granted freedom of movement, and they will be kept under close watch. If they reject our offer of protection we will not interfere with their lives, but I fear those lives would be pitifully short.”

Dumbledore paused and surveyed the room. “Not everyone will be happy with the decision we have come to today. To those people, I will only say that the soul’s ability to change is the greatest magic I have yet to witness. I would not have invited Mr. Malfoy to our sanctuary had I not felt that he had undergone a painful process to become something other than what he was. I do not accept light apologies. It is Mr. Malfoy’s actions, rather than his words, that have earned my trust. With that in mind, I would like to invite Severus to deliver a few parting thoughts.”

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, whose faces mirrored his bewilderment as Snape stepped forward.

“Draco Malfoy was placed under quite an unusual enchantment,” he said, sounding slightly bored. “I am uniquely familiar with the nature of this enchantment as I am the one who invented it.” 

Hermione punched Harry in the arm, but it wasn’t necessary. He knew exactly what this meant.

“Mr. Potter stumbled across the spell in my old potions book, where I was wont to scribble ill-advised magical experimentations. The spell in question—  _ iterum vivere _ — was one I invented but never used, as I was able to realize, even as an adolescent, that it was far too dangerous to be reliably implemented. The spell’s purpose is to change a person’s heart— their opinions or feelings on a matter— by forcing them to relive the same day over and over until they reach an understanding that satisfies the spell’s caster. As you can imagine, there are many obvious flaws with this strategy. Firstly, the spell also forces everyone within the intended victim’s immediate vicinity to suffer the spell’s effects unknowingly, and can disturb the normal flow of time. Mr. Potter’s use of the spell in fact disconnected Hogwarts and Hogsmeade from the rest of the world, causing the inhabitants of both locations to lose three weeks of their lives and provoking a mild panic among students’ families. 

“Secondly, the spell has no countercharm. It only ends when its victim reaches an epiphany that satisfies the caster’s intention. There is, of course, the risk that this might never occur, thus permanently trapping the spell’s occupants and perhaps irreparably damaging the fabric of time.”

Hermione let out a small gasp, and even Harry felt a prickle of unease. He didn’t remember casting the spell, and he couldn’t have known its possible effects. But the shadow of what might have happened passed over him anyway, more chilling even then the results of sectumsempra.  _ I should never have trusted that book _ , he thought, irritated at how very right Hermione had been. 

The book had belonged to Snape. Severus Snape, the person other than Draco Malfoy with whom he least wanted to have anything in common. Remembering his feverish obsession with the cramped instructions in the margins, with the clever spells he found there, his face grew hot with shame. 

“Although we are regrettably unable to punish Potter for his use of illegal magic as he did not know the spell’s potential consequences, nor was it this  _ version _ of Potter who cast the spell, I am issuing this warning to dissuade any further attempts at altering people’s opinions through the use of the spell.”

With that, Snape gave a curt nod and stepped back.

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “Well, that is all. Disperse, friends.”

The room filled with excited chatter at once. Harry saw Fred and George leaning in to whisper with Tonks, and a balding wizard rushing to catch up with Snape, who was striding towards the door like a bat on very urgent business. Ginny and Luna pushed through the throng towards Draco.

Something in Harry snapped at the sight, and he hurried to the door. He thought he heard Hermione call after him, but he ignored it. There was a small knot of people in the corridor, and Harry pushed past them and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. If anyone came looking for him, they would likely look in the room where he used to stay, back when Grimmauld Place belonged to his godfather. Instead, Harry headed for Sirius’s room, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.

The silence of the room felt like a cool cloth against his head. He hadn’t realized his temples were throbbing until the pain eased. For a moment, he just leaned against the door and breathed, closing his eyes and letting himself forget about the trial, and the Order, and Ginny, and Malfoy.

When he opened his eyes, he realized he had never been in Sirius’s room before. There were Muggle posters on the walls— half-naked girls and a diagram of a motorcycle— and faded Gryffindor colors everywhere. A tight hand squeezed Harry’s chest and he let out a little laugh that hitched and became almost a sob. Sirius’s room. This was where he had paced as a teenager, fuming with anger at his family, his situation. This was where he had slept during those long months when he couldn’t leave Grimmauld Place, when the walls of his old, hated home threatened to entomb him more surely than even Azkaban. This was where he would never be again.

Harry crossed to the bed and sank onto it, the ancient bedsprings complaining loudly. He dropped his face in his hands, waiting for tears to come. The pressure in his chest built, but his eyes remained dry. This was how it had been all year. Something would remind him of his godfather and the grief would tumble up from inside him, then stop, arrested just at the point of escaping, and Sirius would start to slip through his fingers, and Harry would wonder if he had ever known the man at all.

A soft knock at the door startled Harry so badly he jumped, making the bed squeal. He swore under his breath and tried to hold still, hoping whoever it was would just go away.

“Harry,” said a familiar voice. “I know you’re in there.”

Harry opened his mouth to say he wanted to be alone, but what came out was, “Come in.”

The doorknob twisted and Lupin stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His eyes slid across the walls, taking in the posters and the Gryffindor hangings, then came to rest on Harry. His smile looked older than Dumbledore.

“You can sit, if you like,” Harry mumbled, looking down at his hands. He didn’t want Lupin to see the wetness in his eyes and realize that just stepping into Sirius’s room had brought him close to tears. He was embarrassed, though if anyone understood, it would be Lupin.

Harry’s old professor did sit, leaving a few inches between him and Harry. The bed bowed under his weight, forcing Harry to lean slightly away.

“I never once saw this room when I was at Hogwarts,” Lupin said, his eyes still roving around, drinking in the traces of Sirius’s teenage whims. “None of us visited Sirius here. He couldn’t have invited me even if he wanted to— old Walburga would never have let a werewolf into her home. But even after Azkaban, when I visited Sirius here, we never— he never showed me this room. I never asked.”

He fell silent, and Harry looked up at him. Lupin’s eyes were distant, focused on another time, and there was such deep affection on his face that Harry felt like it was wrong to look at him. He glanced back at his hands. He had wondered, before, about Lupin’s relationship with his godfather, but he had never figured out how to ask.

“You know that Sirius never forgave Severus. He never even learned to be in the same room with him.”

Harry realized quickly where Lupin was going with this, and a hot flash of anger evaporated his grief.

“He didn’t have any reason to forgive him though, did he?” he said, rather stiffly. “What did Snape ever do to apologize?”

Lupin sighed. “I don’t like Severus Snape, Harry. He is a selfish man who is cruel when it suits him and only occasionally noble. I dislike him because of how he behaves, and I am civil with him because he performs a dangerous and highly unpleasant job for the Order that no one else could perform as well as he could. I respect his work, but I do not respect him. I don’t know that Severus has ever truly changed. His allegiances, yes. The way he treats people he has no use for? Well.”

Some of Harry’s anger had faded at hearing Lupin describe Snape as a “selfish man,” but he still braced himself for the lecture that was coming. 

“I wasn’t there for the Veritaserum,” Lupin went on. “But I’ve heard versions of Draco’s story. Enough to know that Draco Malfoy is not like Severus Snape.”

Harry glanced up, momentarily surprised out of his resentment. “He’s not?”

“No.” Lupin met Harry’s eyes, his gaze contemplative and assessing like it used to be when he posed a particularly difficult question in class. “Draco doesn’t just regret who he chose to follow or what side of the war he ended up on. He regrets what he believed and who he hurt. He regrets how he treated the people in his life before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was more than a shadow on his horizon.”

Harry had heard Lupin speak like this before, in class, when he was passionate about the subject. He became almost poetic, his hoarse voice rising and falling so the class leaned forward to catch his every word. As he spoke, Harry thought of his fight with Ginny, and how she had ignored the tears that slipped from her eyes and coursed steadily down her cheeks, pretending they weren’t there until they dripped off her chin. He remembered the sounds Malfoy had made when he was bleeding on the floor of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

The shame he felt when he realized everyone had been right about the potions book returned with such force his stomach rolled. He clenched his fists at his sides, fingernails digging into flesh, trying to block it out, but it was unrelenting.

“Why can’t I just accept it like everyone else?” he asked softly.

“Because he was cruelest to you. Because you are fiercely loyal to your friends and he hurt so many of them.”

_ Because even at your lowest moments, you at least knew you were better than Draco Malfoy _ . The thought redoubled Harry’s shame. His eyes stung.

“No one said you have to be his friend,” Lupin said. “If it makes you feel any better, I think it’s awful that Dumbledore’s keeping him here. If I had any say I would find somewhere besides your house.”

“It’s not my house,” Harry said automatically. “It’s not— it’s not my—” His voice began to shake, and he broke off. Why were the tears threatening now? He couldn’t bring himself to cry for his godfather, but he could cry for himself.

“I know,” Lupin said. “It wasn’t his house either. Sirius. It’s a cursed old dungeon. Maybe it does make sense after all. Keeping Draco here.”

Harry laughed, and a few tears escaped. He wiped them away, sniffing quietly.

“Did you…” he began, searching for the right words. “Did you get to...spend time with Sirius? After Azkaban? I know you were busy, and he was trapped here, and…”

“Do you mean does it feel like I just barely had him back before he was snatched away again?” 

Harry’s heart squeezed painfully. Suddenly he saw Lupin not as his professor or his last father figure but as a not-very-old man whose face was torn by scars, who had watched all of his friends die. Harry felt cold, and very, very alone. 

“I’m sorry,” Lupin said, his voice slipping back to its usual even tone. “I shouldn’t...” He smiled sadly. “Yes, I did get to spend time with Sirius. It wasn’t as much time as I wanted. We had both changed so much, and it would have taken a long time for us to get to know each other the way we once did. But we did get to talk, and be together.” 

Lupin hesitated, his eyes moving over Harry’s face, then dropping to his own hands, which were clasped in his lap. He frowned, and looked up at the wall, addressing the window instead of Harry. 

“Sirius and I had a complicated relationship. I haven’t said anything— well. It’s hard to know what to say. But Sirius and I were very close at Hogwarts, and after. We were...well,  _ lovers _ .” His cheeks flushed at the word “lovers,” and Harry became quite interested in the embroidery on the bedspread. A part of him wished this conversation would immediately end, but another part of him ached to know more, to understand another thread of his godfather’s life. “I will always love Sirius. He was...everything to me. When I learned he was innocent, it felt too good to be true. And I treasured having him back, even if we weren’t what we used to be. I’m grateful we had that time, as short as it was.”

He said the word “grateful” forcefully, as though he were trying to convince himself. Harry’s throat was tight and he didn’t trust himself to speak. He had never felt more connected to Lupin, more like someone else understood what it was like to lose someone he had only just realized he had.

“Anyway,” Lupin sighed, after the silence had stretched on for several moments. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Harry. There’s nothing easy about what’s being asked of you. Any of it.”

Harry shrugged. 

“Well, I suppose you’d better be heading back to Hogwarts. I’m sure someone could sidealong you to Hogsmeade if—”

“Dumbledore gave me another portkey,” Harry said, reaching into the pocket of his robes and producing an old lipstick tube. “It’s meant to go in…” he glanced at his watch. “Another fifteen minutes.”

“In that case,” Lupin said. “You should head downstairs. I think there are some people waiting for the chance to speak with you. Not strangers,” he added quickly, as Harry’s face fell. All too often, Order members who Harry had never met attempted to waylay him for autographs or handshakes or a quick chat. He tried to be amiable about it, but he hated it. “Your friends,” Lupin said. “And if I’m not mistaken two of them might need a trip back to Hogwarts.”

Harry left his godfather’s room reluctantly, although he felt marginally calmer after his talk with Lupin. He wanted to talk to his old professor again, and ask him proper questions about Sirius. Maybe they could have some sort of memorial for him, something just for them. The thought bolstered him and softened the edges of his anger about Malfoy.

Hermione and Ron, predictably, were sitting on the bottom step of the staircase with their heads bent together, whispering. Thankfully, Malfoy was nowhere in sight.

“You’re going to be late getting back to the castle,” Harry said when he was in earshot, and they both leapt to their feet like they’d been caught stealing boomslang skin. Harry knew they had been talking about him, probably fretting over his mental state. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said, arms crossed against her chest. “Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, reaching the last step. “I— er, talked to Lupin a bit.”

“That’s good,” Ron said earnestly, his face determinedly thoughtful. It made Harry want to laugh, but he didn’t, for the sake of his friend’s dignity. 

“Yeah, er, should we be getting back?”

“Yes,” Hermione said quickly. “Ginny and Luna are out in the front hall. Dumbledore said you have a portkey—?”

Harry held up the lipstick tube. 

“Is that  _ Phoenix Fierce _ ?” Hermione asked, peering at the worn label on the tube. “But that’s been discontinued. Where did Dumbledore get it?”

“You know what a shade of lipstick is called?” Ron said, at the same time as Harry said,

“ _ Phoenix Fierce _ ?”

Hermione turned faintly pink. “I share a dormitory with Lavender and Parvati, all right? Something is bound to rub off. And yes,  _ Phoenix Fierce _ . It was a limited edition wizarding lipstick. Supposed to...well, it was supposed to make ‘every kiss burn like phoenix fire’ but I’m sure that’s just the advertising copy.”

Ron shook his head, wearing a look that clearly said, “I will never understand her.” Harry snorted.

“Come on,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Ginny and Luna behind.”

They made their way out into the hall together, and Hermione and Ron said quick goodbyes to Harry, Ginny, and Luna before heading outside to apparate. As soon as the front door shut behind them, a sticky silence fell over the three people remaining inside. Luna, for her part, was examining one of the decapitated house elf trophies with mild interest. Ginny stood with her arms crossed, red hair falling over her eyes. Her whole body seemed squared up and closed off in a way it had never been to Harry. The sight filled him with a surge of regret, and he felt it was suddenly urgent to apologize to Ginny, to say he understood why she had helped Draco and kept it a secret, to say he wouldn’t keep so many secrets from her in the future. The chasm between them was terrifyingly wide, and he needed to breach it.

But it wasn’t true that he understood why she had done what she did. And he wasn’t sure he could promise to tell her everything. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to show his messiness to Ginny. Not that she didn’t see it or know it was there, but Harry needed to preserve her outside of all of it, outside of the tangle that was the life of the Chosen One, to keep her at a safe and lovely distance. It worried him when he started to think that way, because it didn’t seem like he should think about his girlfriend like that. He tried to tamp those thoughts down like he always did, but it was harder with Ginny studiously avoiding his eye. 

After what felt like an eternity, the portkey finally started to glow, and Harry held it out, motioning to his companions. Ginny gripped the top of the tube gingerly, avoiding Harry’s hand, and Luna wrapped her hand around the both of theirs. Moments later the portkey jerked them away from Grimmauld Place and deposited them on the floor of Dumbledore’s office. Harry got to his feet quickly, and found the headmaster standing behind his desk, smiling down at them.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said. “Ms. Weasley and Ms. Lovegood, I believe your heads of houses are both waiting to speak to you in their respective offices.” His eyes glittered sternly over his half moon glasses. 

“Yes, headmaster,” the two girls said, and they hurried out of the office together with a haste that Harry thought wasn’t entirely due to their impending punishments. As soon as they were gone, the headmaster turned those glittering eyes on Harry. He said nothing, and Harry squirmed. He didn’t want to talk, but he knew Dumbledore was waiting for him to say something.

“Well, er, that’s over with,” Harry said.

“Yes, indeed it is.”

“Right.”

Dumbledore didn’t shift his gaze or indicate in any way that Harry was free to leave, but Harry had no idea what he was waiting for.

“Oh, uh, here’s your portkey back.” He held out the tube of lipstick, but Dumbledore waved it away.

“No, no. Keep it, Harry. I’m afraid my  _ Phoenix Fierce _ days are far behind me.”

Harry swallowed. “Right. Er, I’ll just go then.”

He hurried out of the office before Dumbledore could say anything more about his  _ Phoenix Fierce  _ days.


	13. Grimmauld Place

The lights. They drifted lazily across the ceiling, shifting through the colors of the rainbow. Draco thought, for a moment, that he was in the breakfast nook at Malfoy Manor, sitting under the stained glass window that always blanketed the table in jewel tones. But when he sat up he realized he was in a small bed, and the multicolored lights were streaming through a prism that hung in the window. Reality returned to him slowly as he took in the blank walls and spare furnishings of the room. He was at Grimmauld Place, in the bedroom the Order members had given him. Judging by the sunlight, Draco guessed it was past noon. He rarely slept so late in his ordinary life, even on holidays. But nothing was ordinary anymore.

Every morning at Grimmauld Place, it struck Draco anew that the horror that had been his life for the past year was over. The Order of the Phoenix had officially given him their trust. More importantly, they had promised to shelter his parents. Dumbledore had said they would send Order members to find Lucius and Narcissa, and that Draco would be kept apprised of their whereabouts and even be allowed to visit them when it was deemed safe. Knowing that Voldemort soon wouldn’t be able to get to them lifted a great weight from Draco’s shoulders. It was all finally over. He was freed from Potter’s spell, freed from the responsibility of the Dark Lord’s task, freed from worrying about who would die as a result of his actions. He was  _ free _ .

As Draco climbed out of bed and dressed (Dumbledore had thoughtfully had all of his belongings sent over from Hogwarts), he felt like a child climbing out of the bath, scrubbed raw and clean. The one thorn in his side— the one thing that sent a prickle of unease through him whenever he thought of it— was Potter’s reaction to everything. Draco hadn’t been surprised that the Boy Who Lived wasn’t exactly thrilled with recent events. He had expected the cold shoulder, and plenty of suspicion, too. But he hadn’t been prepared for the simmering loathing and rage that had radiated off of Potter through the entire Veritaserum trial, and during the meeting when Dumbledore announced his verdict. It was a palpable hatred that didn’t diminish a bit when Draco was proven to be telling the truth. 

He knew he shouldn’t let it bother him, as Potter had no real power in the Order. It wasn’t as though Draco’s feelings towards his boyhood nemesis were all sunshine and baby nifflers. But for some reason, the memory of Potter’s glowering face settled like a pit in his stomach. And even worse, Draco had nothing to distract himself with. He had been at Grimmauld Place a week already, and exhausted every possible activity or entertainment the house provided. He had explored all four floors (five, if you included the secret second attic) and read all of the least disturbing books in the Black family library. He had tried (and failed) to make conversation with Kreacher, taken tea with any of the rotating cast of Order members willing to socialize with him, and asked Dumbledore to pass along his schoolwork so he wouldn’t fall too far behind (none of it had arrived yet). Now, Draco had nothing to do but sit alone with his thoughts.

Because that seemed like a terrible idea, he decided to make breakfast instead. Downstairs, the house seemed to be empty. Sometimes Order members stayed the night and could be found in the kitchen the next morning, or sometimes they popped in for a meal or a quick, furtive meeting in the middle of the day. They all seemed terribly busy, though Draco had no idea what any of them were up to. But this morning the kitchen was empty but for a lone pixie buzzing around the window. Draco banished it with a quick charm and set about preparing to make eggs.

The only problem was, he had never made eggs before. He had seen them in their final form, and watched them be prepared a time or two, but he hadn’t gone so far as to actually take part in their preparation. 

“Accio eggs,” he said, with a lazy flick of his wand, and a basket soared neatly out of some hidden cupboard and landed on the counter in front of him. Four eggs were nestled inside under the faint shimmer of a stasis charm. Draco summoned a bowl and pan next, then waved away the stasis charm and picked up one of the eggs. It had a nice weight to it, not unlike a snitch. The next step, Draco knew, was a tricky one. He had seen Dobby beaten for accidentally smashing an egg when he meant to only crack it open, so he knew he needed to be gentle. Bending down until the bowl was at eye level, Draco lifted the egg and tapped it as lightly as he could on the side of the bowl. Nothing happened. He tapped it a bit harder, and still the shell resisted. Finally, he brought it down with a sharp  _ thwack _ , and gooey yolk splattered in his hand. 

“What is Mr. Malfoy doing?” a croaky voice cried, and Draco nearly dropped the ruined egg in shock. 

“Kreacher,” he sighed, dropping the dripping yolk, shell and all, into the bowl. “I was making breakfast.”

“Mr. Malfoy is not needing to make breakfast, Kreacher is being a good cook,” Kreacher said, hobbling towards him from the door. 

“I was looking for something to do,” Draco said. He picked up his wand with his clean hand and vanished the mess from his fingers. If only he knew a spell that could separate shell from yolk. This, however, turned out not to be necessary. Kreacher pulled a step stool out from the corner, propped it against the counter, climbed it, and waved his hand over the mess Draco had made. The shattered egg shell vanished without a trace, leaving the egg behind. With another wave of Kreacher’s hand a whisk soared out of a drawer and began stirring the egg while two more eggs floated from the basket and cracked themselves neatly on the side of the bowl, their shells disappearing into thin air. “I would have figured it out,” Draco grumbled, but he was secretly relieved.

“If Mr. Malfoy is wanting to help, he can be toasting the bread,” Kreacher said. “Is he knowing how to do this?”

“I know how to make toast, thank you very much,” Draco said. He summoned the bread and cast a singeing spell at quarter strength, then summoned butter and jam to go with it. He ate the toast while Kreacher worked, marvelling at the ease with which the elf manipulated magic. All house elves used a certain amount of magic to do their tasks, but some were more artful than others. Dobby had done most things by hand, using magic only occasionally, and the elf the Malfoys had replaced him with had been clumsy with her spellwork. Kreacher, on the other hand, was a master. Despite his gnarled appearance, he had a certain grace about him when he was working.

“It is nice to be having a Malfoy under our roof once more,” Kreacher muttered as he worked. He almost seemed to be talking to himself, but Draco decided to engage him anyway. It wasn’t like either of them had anyone else to talk to.

“Have you always worked for the Black family?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Kreacher said, straightening slightly. “Kreacher is from a long line of elves who have served this noble house.” 

“You know my mother, don’t you?”

“I am knowing Miss Narcissa,” Kreacher said, scattering some freshly chopped onion onto a sizzling pan. “Miss Narcissa is a kind and noble woman. She is a great witch.” 

“Yes,” Draco said softly, thinking of the way his mother’s laugh echoed through the rooms of the Manor. He thought, too, of the way she laughed one morning at the breakfast table the summer after Draco’s fifth year when his father read aloud a  _ Daily Prophet _ article about a string of Muggle killings: her eyes bright and imperious, her smile scornful. The memory twisted like a knife in his gut. He longed for his parents, longed for their safety, longed to return to his home with them and feel whole again. But he knew what they were—who they were—and he couldn’t look away from that fact. Once Dumbledore protected them, what then? 

His parents had changed in the past year. His father, brought low by failure; his mother desperate to protect him. He was no longer certain whether they hoped for Voldemort to succeed. But they had done things, terrible things, moreso even than Draco. They had killed. 

“The eggs are ready, Mr. Malfoy,” Kreacher said, bowing low as he pushed a plate across the counter. On it was a perfect omelette stuffed with onions, ham, and what appeared to be fresh red peppers. There was even a little parsley garnish on top. 

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Draco said. “It looks delicious.” He made a show of eating it, seeing the gleam of pride in Kreacher’s eyes as he did, but his appetite had all but vanished. All he wanted to do was to sink into the ground, to disappear and never return.


	14. At Least It's Not the Dursleys

The rest of the school year passed in a blur. Harry did his best to focus on his schoolwork, but he was sorely distracted. For one thing, his meetings with Dumbledore had continued, and Dumbledore kept dropping cryptic hints about a horcrux he may have located. He wouldn’t say where the horcrux was or when he would be seeking it, but he had promised to take Harry with him, so it was impossible for Harry not to speculate. 

“D’you think it’s even in England?” he asked one evening in the common room when he was studying with Ron and Hermione. 

“I  _ think _ you should wait until Dumbledore tells you,” Hermione said irritably, barely glancing up from the enormous book she was reading. “There’s no use wondering about it. You haven’t got any information.”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Ron himself was not paying the closest attention to his schoolwork. He had a Charms essay in front of him, but a wizarding comic about a bumbling Hufflepuff named Tim Dimduffle open on his lap. “He hasn’t exactly given you much to go on.”

Harry knew they were right, and he tried to shift his attention back to his Transfiguration flashcards. But at that moment the portrait swung open and Ginny came through, carrying a tall stack of library books. She entered the common room, looked up, and caught Harry’s eye. For an instant she froze, and Harry opened his mouth to say something, not sure what it would be.  _ Hello? Fancy a chat? _ But before he could speak, Ginny turned on her heel and made a beeline for the girl’s dormitory, her long ponytail swinging behind her.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” Harry grumbled, knowing he would never be able to focus now. If it wasn’t horcruxes, it was Ginny, and thinking about Ginny led to thinking about Malfoy, and that led to the unbearable fury that everyone was tired of hearing about. Even Harry was a little bit tired of it, but he just couldn’t help himself. The thought of Malfoy at Grimmauld Place, sauntering through the halls that had once tortured Sirius, that familiar smirk on his face...it made him want to scream. Sometimes Harry even  _ dreamt  _ about Malfoy, angry dreams that left him groggy and shaking. In one dream, he chased Malfoy through the halls of Hogwarts, convinced that Malfoy had just committed a terrible crime and needed to be caught. The Slytherin always evaded him, ducking around corners and disappearing behind portraits. In another dream the two simply fought, first dueling, then casting aside their wands and throwing punches, shouting insults until a phoenix swooped in to pull them apart. 

The final weeks of the term dragged terribly. Harry limped through his exams, eager for them to be over until he remembered that all that awaited him was another summer with the Dursleys. But just a week before term ended, Dumbledore summoned Harry into his office in the middle of the day.

“Come sit,” he said when Harry arrived. “I think it’s time we discussed your summer plans.”

“My...I’m going back to the Dursleys, aren’t I?” Harry’s heart leapt at the thought that Dumbledore might have some alternative plan for him.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, and Harry’s heart sank again. “But only for a short time.”

“Have the Weasleys invited me to stay at the Burrow?”

“Not exactly,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve decided, in light of recent events, that it is time the Order concentrated its efforts. War is coming, Harry. We have much work to do, and time is short.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, unsure of what this meant.

“If it is amenable to you, I would like you to come to Grimmauld Place this summer. You can invite your friends as well of course, and there will be a small contingency of Order members living there full time. Voldemort is assembling an army, as must we.”

“That would be great,” Harry blurted, imagining a summer with Ron and Hermione, with Tonks and Lupin and the Weasleys always around, and, best of all, with the Dursleys far, far away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Dumbledore said. “I had worried you might take issue with the plan, in light of Grimmauld Place’s newest inhabitant.”

The glorious vision in Harry’s mind burst like a bubble. “I...I forgot, sir.”

“Yes, I can see that. Does this mean that you would rather spend the entire summer with your aunt and uncle?”

Harry had to grit his teeth to keep himself from shouting in reply. Of course he would be staying at Grimmauld Place, Malfoy or no Malfoy. Dumbledore knew what it was like for him to stay with the Dursleys, and he was using it against him.  _ He knows what’s best for you _ , Harry reminded himself. He would be lost without Dumbledore. But sometimes he wanted to shake the old man, demand he share his closely guarded secrets, demand that he give Harry a choice beyond misery with the Dursleys or misery with Malfoy.

“No,” Harry said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “No, I’ll stay at Grimmauld Place.” He would just have to make the best of it. Avoid Malfoy, and enjoy the time he had with his friends. 

“Wonderful. You’ll be pleased to know that the entire Weasley family will be spending a good portion of the summer there as well.”

“The...the entire family?”

“Well, except for Percy and Charlie. Though I do hear there is to be a bit of an event in the family. I’m sure you’ll hear about it quite soon.”

“Er...okay then.” Normally, Harry would have been thrilled to spend the summer with all of the Weasleys. But at the moment, there was one Weasley who he was worried about sharing a roof with. He still hadn’t made up with Ginny. They hadn’t even talked since Dumbledore announced his verdict on Malfoy. He was going to have to do something about that.

That night at dinner, he broke down and asked Ron for help.

“Just because I’m letting you date my sister doesn’t mean I’m going to give you dating advice,” Ron huffed, reaching across Harry for a buttered roll. 

“I’m not asking for dating advice,” Harry said, shoving the basket towards Ron. “If I needed advice I’d ask Hermione. I just need you to get her to talk to me. She won’t even let me say ‘hi,’ I don’t know how I’m supposed to mend things if she runs away every time I see her.”

Ron grimaced. “I’m not going to be your go between, either. Didn’t I tell you, if you hurt her—”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Harry said, exasperated. “We just...had a misunderstanding, is all.” 

Ron shook his head, and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll talk to her. But if you make her cry, I swear—”

“Thank you, Ron,” Harry said, clapping his friend on the back. “I promise, I won’t let you down.”

Exactly three hours later, Ginny was crying. It wasn’t quite sobbing, and it definitely wasn’t brokenhearted weeping. Tears of anger coursed silently down her face as she yelled at Harry. He was grateful they had chosen to sneak out of the castle and meet by the lake, and that he had thought to cast Muffliato beforehand.

“I can’t  _ believe _ you blame me for this,” Ginny shouted. “You never tell me anything. You go off to your secret meetings, and on your secret missions, and I’m just supposed to wait around until you come back and hope you’re safe. I don’t know what you whisper about with Ron and Hermione, I’m too young or stupid or whatever it is you think I am. But the  _ moment _ I keep a secret from you, for a  _ totally _ valid reason I might add, you treat it like some sort of betrayal. Fuck you, Harry!”

“You— you’ve got it all wrong,” Harry sputtered, taking a step towards Ginny. “Look, I know I keep secrets, okay. I’ve told you, I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that...you’re amazing, Gin, okay?”

Ginny continued to glower at him, wand clenched in one hand, but she stopped yelling, and she even wiped away a few of her tears. Encouraged, Harry went on.

“My life has always been this way,” he said. “I try and get on with it but Voldemort always shows up, and he’s my destiny, and I can’t escape it. It’s...it’s fucking terrifying. All the time. And you’re this wonderful person who came into my life, and I just...it’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“But Harry,” Ginny said. “If this is going to work, you have to tell me things. I have to be a part of your life.”

“I know, I just…” Harry began to pace, unable to find the words to express what he felt. “Sometimes I just want to escape it all. And I don’t want to drag you down into it. You’re...it’s like you’re pure. You’re funny and you’re happy and beautiful and…”

“Innocent?” 

Harry knew at once that he had said something wrong. Ginny’s voice was laced with scorn, but beneath it was something worse. Hurt. Disappointment.

“I don’t mean—”

“No, I know exactly what you mean, Harry. I’ve known it for a long time, I just hoped it wasn’t true. I’m still Ron’s little sister to you, aren’t I? I’m the girl you rescued from the Chamber of Secrets. The girl you get to protect.”

“Come on, that’s not—”

“This isn’t working, Harry.” She didn’t sound angry anymore. Her voice was tired, resigned. She tucked her wand back into the sleeve of her robes and took a step towards Harry.

“No, you’re not being fair, that’s not what I said.”

“Maybe,” Ginny said. “Maybe you really do love me for who I am. But that’s not how you act. I can’t keep dating someone who keeps me on a shelf. I can’t be with someone who won’t share things with me.”

“Ginny,” Harry said, his voice breaking on her name. He wanted to say more— needed to say more— to keep this horrible, unimaginable thing from happening. But he didn’t have the words.

“I think we should break up,” Ginny said. She looked up at Harry, a question in her eyes, a final moment of hesitation. Harry looked into those familiar brown eyes, and he longed to take Ginny’s face in his hands, to pull her close and make everything right. But he couldn’t find anything to say. Ginny sighed and looked down, breaking their gaze. “Goodnight, Harry,” she said, and she turned and walked away across the dark and silent grounds. 

Harry watched, feeling like his body was a shell, and everything inside it was falling and breaking into a million pieces. 

There were a thousand reasons for Harry not to want to go to Grimmauld Place. But after two weeks with the Dursleys, all of those reasons began to feel distant, and he wondered why he had ever thought they mattered so much. Anything was better than the stultifying pace of life on Privet Drive, and the thick layer of animosity that coated every word the Dursleys spoke to him, when they bothered to acknowledge him at all.

Ron and Hermione both wrote him while he was there to tell him that they would indeed be coming to spend the summer with the Order. Each, in their own way, admonished him for breaking up with Ginny, and Harry had to restrain himself from reminding them that she had been the one to end things. Ginny herself wrote Harry as well. She said she wasn’t angry with him anymore, and that she hoped they could be friendly with each other.  _ You still matter to me _ , she wrote.  _ I just think it’s better that we don’t date each other. _ Harry wrote back to say that of course they could be friendly, though in reality, he had no idea how he felt about any of it. Most of the time Ginny seemed more like an idea to him than a person, and when he tried to sort out how he felt about their relationship ending, all that came to him was a prickle of annoyance at the fact that everyone seemed to blame him.

He knew things would be different at Grimmauld Place. This always happened to him over the summer; his head grew foggy, and his friends began to seem far away and barely real. It helped him get through the months away from Hogwarts, he supposed. Let him shrink both his presence and expectations back down to cupboard size. But the effects didn’t wear off until he found himself (quite suddenly, it seemed) standing in the front hall of Grimmauld Place with his school trunk and Hedwig’s cage, being tackle-hugged by Hermione. 

“It’s only been two weeks,” Harry said, though he understood Hermione’s enthusiasm. It felt like it had been much longer. 

“I know,” Hermione said, pulling back so Harry could see Ron grinning behind her. “I just can’t believe Dumbledore sent you back to the Dursleys. You’d think, with everything going on…”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, well. I’m here now.” 

“Good thing, too,” Ron said. “If you missed the wedding, Mum might have cried. She kept going on about how you probably hadn’t ever seen a wedding before, and how lovely it would be for you.” 

Harry laughed, but secretly the thought of Mrs. Weasley worrying about him arriving on time left a warm feeling in his chest. He really hadn’t been to a wedding before, and he was actually quite looking forward to it. Ron had written to tell him about it just after term ended. Apparently it was to be held at the Burrow, under an excessive amount of protective enchantments. 

“Hi, Harry,” said another voice, and Harry peered down the hall to see Ginny standing at the foot of the stairs. She looked nervous, but held her chin up defiantly, as if daring anyone to make this awkward. At once, a cascade of feelings tumbled through Harry. It was so good to see her, and he longed to laugh with her and tell her about all of the ridiculous things Dudley had done in the past two weeks. But he couldn’t. He had no idea how he was supposed to act around her. 

“Hi,” he said stiffly. “Er, good to see you.”

“You too,” Ginny said. Then, turning to Ron, she said, “Mum says you have to help set the table.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ginny turned, flipping her hair over one shoulder, and started down the stairs that led to the kitchen. When she was gone, Ron let out a long sigh.

“Blimey. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this summer if you two are like that every time you run into each other.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione said. “That wasn’t so bad. And they’ll get used to being around each other soon.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’ll be fine.” He wasn’t sure he entirely believed it, but it helped to say it out loud. 

When Harry and Hermione followed Ron downstairs to help set the table, they found most of the Weasley family already there. Ginny was on the far side of the room, her nose buried in a magazine that bore a large, moving photo of the Holyhead Harpies’ seeker on the cover. Fred and George gave a collective cheer when Harry walked in, and leapt upon him to shake his hand and pummel his back like he had just won the Quidditch World Cup. When they finally subsided, Bill Weasley stood up from the table to say hi. Harry, who hadn’t realized Bill had arrived, felt his cheeks warm. He had always found Bill a bit intimidating, and never more so than now. He wore tight black jeans and an equally tight t-shirt under a sleek, dragonskin jacket. His wavy red hair fell loose over his shoulders, and when he grinned at Harry, Harry’s stomach twisted in knots. 

“Oh, Harry, thank goodness you’re here,” Mrs. Weasley called from the stove, where she was frantically waving her wand at a pot that had begun to issue a great deal of steam. “I’ll give you a hug in just a moment, my stew’s giving me a bit of trouble.”

Harry heard the kitchen door open behind him, and he turned just in time to see Malfoy freeze in the entryway. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other. Harry’s whole body went rigid, and he saw a muscle twitch in Malfoy’s jaw. He wondered if he should reach for his wand. But Malfoy ducked his head, dropping Harry’s gaze, and slipped past him. He made straight for a chair at the far end of the table, next to Ginny and as far from Harry as he could possibly be. 

Well, Harry thought, that was for the best. Maybe if they kept their distance, if they avoided each other whenever possible and ignored each other when they couldn’t, this whole living arrangement might be somewhat tolerable. 

Maybe even more than tolerable, he thought, looking back at Mrs. Weasley, and then at Ron and Hermione. At least it wasn’t the Dursleys’. 


	15. Grudges

Things had just begun to get better at Grimmauld Place when Potter arrived. It simply wasn’t fair. 

The Weasleys had all moved into the house at the end of term, and, although the clatter and chaos of their presence had been jarring after weeks of near complete isolation, Draco had found he didn’t mind. He liked waking up to the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen, and the sound of Mrs. Weasley arguing loudly with Kreacher, who was very put out at having another competent cook in the house. Most of the Weasleys treated him with a sort of cool politeness, which was completely fine by him. He hadn’t exactly expected their immediate affection (especially not from Ron, Fred, or George), and he wasn’t sure he would have known what to do with it. But Ginny talked to him, and sat with him at meals, and played Wizards’ Chess with him in the evenings. She had been rather subdued since her dramatic break up with Potter (which Draco had absolutely seen coming), but Draco was pleased to find that he was able to make her laugh even when she seemed intent on glowering the whole day. 

One other Weasley whose presence Draco didn’t mind was Bill. He had never met the eldest Weasley son before and, quite frankly, had not been prepared for it. The sight of that tall, chiselled man in the front hall had inspired thoughts that Draco hoped no one ever had cause to discover, and he stammered his way through their introductions. He felt Ginny’s eyes on him the whole time, and she questioned him about it later that evening, barging into his bedroom without warning.

“Are you gay?” she said without preamble.

“I’m sorry, what?” Draco said, setting aside the genealogy of the Black family that he had been trying and failing to interest himself in. He knew exactly what Ginny was talking about, but he was stalling.

“Do you fancy my brother?”

“No!” Draco cried. “Don’t be silly. Which brother?”

“You know which brother.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draco could feel himself blushing. 

“Okay,” Ginny said. She still looked suspicious, but she climbed onto Draco’s bed and pulled a rolled up magazine from her pocket. 

“Is that  _ The Quibbler _ ?” Draco asked. It was Ginny’s turn to blush. 

“Luna sent it,” she said. “I told her there was nothing to read here. She could send you a copy too, if you get bored of…” she lifted the book Draco had been reading. “_A History of a House Most Noble_.”

“I’d take this over  _ The Quibbler _ any day.”

Ginny shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She flipped the magazine open and settled herself back on the pillows to read. Draco watched her for a second, debating. Then, before he could change his mind, he said,

“I don’t fancy your brother. But...I might be gay.”

Ginny closed her magazine again and turned to look at him. “You’re not sure?”

Draco swallowed. “I...maybe I am sure.” He’d never said any of this out loud before, not to anyone. He hadn’t said it to Blaise after their drunken kisses, or to his parents, Merlin forbid. But some part of him had been certain for a long time. He had never stared at girls the way he stared at boys. When he finally touched Blaise after months of unbearable pining, he had known in a blaze of certainty that  _ this _ was what he wanted— only this. But he hadn’t allowed himself to look at it directly, or think about the implications of it. It was too terrifying, and far too huge. 

“I’m bisexual,” Ginny blurted, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

“Oh,” Draco said. “Wonderful.” He wanted to ask if Luna Lovegood had anything to do with this sudden confession, but he decided not to push. 

“Yeah. Well, just stay away from Bill, okay? He’s getting married.” 

Draco opened his mouth to protest, then saw the grin spreading across Ginny’s face. “Yes, all right,” he grumbled. “Make fun of me. You didn’t warn me, though.”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, by the way, this might sound weird, but my brother is incredibly attractive, just thought you should know’?”

“Please don’t ever bring this up in front of anyone. Or in front of me. Ever again.” 

Ginny laughed, and despite his embarrassment, Draco found that he wanted to laugh too. So he did.

Aside from the Weasleys, the other new inhabitants of Grimmauld Place included Remus Lupin, who Draco’s father had helped get fired in Draco’s third year; Nymphadora Tonks, who was technically some sort of cousin; and Hermione Granger, who wasn’t technically an Order member and seemed to mostly be there because she was Potter’s friend. All three were perfectly pleasant to Draco, and the two older members even engaged him in short conversations at meals. Once, when Draco confided in Lupin that the Black family house was a bit short on reading material, Lupin brought him a stack of books from his own personal library. There were a couple classic works of magical theory, a biography of a famous potioneer that Draco had been meaning to read, and two very dusty paperbacks. Draco glanced at the cover of one of the paperbacks.

“ _ The Adventures of Hammond Howlton, Werewolf, Book 1 _ ,” he read. 

“It was a gift from my, er, well-meaning aunt,” Lupin sighed. “I never read it, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Howlton? Isn’t that a bit of an obvious name for a werewolf?”

“I’m not exactly one to talk,” Lupin said with a little smile.

It was the longest conversation Draco had ever had with his old professor. He wondered if Lupin, like him, was remembering the times Draco had sneered at Lupin’s worn clothes, or drawn rude pictures of him in class. Or perhaps he was remembering the impassioned speech Lucius gave to the school governors when it was revealed that Lupin was a werewolf.  _ We all know Dumbledore to be soft-hearted, verging on negligent, but this crosses the line. Allowing a monster to enter the school where our children live and learn… _

Draco wanted to say he was sorry. He really was sorry— more sorry than he could ever express to Lupin. Instead, he said, “Thank you for the books.”

Lupin regarded him steadily for a moment, and Draco had the feeling that those hazel eyes could see everything Draco meant to say, but couldn’t. 

“More than one good man has wasted away in this awful house,” Lupin said. “I didn’t want you to be the next.”

And so, all in all, it really, really wasn’t fair that Potter had to return. The moment he did, everything in the house changed. Not on the surface; people were still polite to him, and Mrs. Weasley still made him breakfast. But the whole  _ atmosphere _ of the house changed. Just as he was beginning to feel the slightest bit at home, Draco suddenly felt like every space outside of his bedroom was someone else’s territory. At any moment he could walk into a room or turn a corner in a corridor and run into Potter. It wasn’t that Potter taunted him, or tried to curse him, or even acknowledged his presence in any substantial way. It was the look he gave Draco, a cold glare of bitter hatred, that made it impossible for Draco to be around Potter for more than a few minutes at a time. Whenever they were in the same room, that hateful energy came off Potter in icy waves, changing the whole mood of the place until Draco was forced to flee. He started wolfing down his meals and excusing himself right after, only spending time with Ginny if she came to his room or invited him to hers. When Potter was around, Hermione didn’t dare greet Draco, and the Weasleys barely looked at him. Lupin still talked to him, calm as ever, as if to prove he wasn’t afraid of an angry sixteen year old, but Draco found it impossible to carry on a conversation when the set of Potter’s shoulders made it clear that he was listening to every word. 

Even under the spell, Draco had known that life with the Order of the Phoenix would be intolerable if Potter hated him. He wasn’t the leader of the Order, or even officially a member. But he was the heart and soul of the resistance against Voldemort; he was the Chosen One. He had a power over his friends that Draco didn’t think he was even fully aware of. If Harry Potter hated Draco, Draco would always be an outsider. 

He brought this up to Ginny one night when she asked him why he had skipped dinner. Mrs. Weasley had made a roast that Draco had smelled all the way upstairs, but he had ignored his growling stomach in favor of hiding from Potter. 

“It’s hard to be around him,” he said, directing his knight to take her rook. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. If he doesn’t forgive me— or at least stop treating me like a dungbomb that’s about to go off— I’m never going to be able to...to  _ live _ .”

Ginny studied the chess board for a second, then tapped her queen and, in a single move, put Draco in check. 

“Not everyone’s going to forgive you right away. Some people never will.”

“I know,” Draco said, a blush rising to his cheeks. He didn’t want Ginny to think he was ungrateful. Of course he deserved the cold shoulder— and a lot worse— from Potter. “I know he has every right to treat me however he likes. I just don’t know how long I can live under the same roof as him.”

“Yeah, that does make things hard. I can’t really figure out why Dumbledore set things up this way, unless…” She knocked aside the bishop Draco had pulled back to defend his king, and won for the third time that night. Draco’s chess pieces groaned and began hurling abuse at him. “He might be trying to  _ force _ you to get along. You know, for the sake of the war.”

“Ah, so he’s decided to punish me after all.” 

Ginny grinned. “Come on, it’s not that bad.” She swept her triumphant chess pieces off the board and into their leather bag, tossed them aside, and sprawled out on Draco’s bed. 

“You’re not exactly on his good side right now either,” Draco pointed out. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”

Draco couldn’t make out Ginny’s face from where he was sitting on the floor, but he could picture the grumpy little frown she would be wearing— the face she always made when Draco made a good point and she didn’t want to admit it.

“It’s not that it doesn’t bother me,” she said finally. “But it’s different. I mean, nobody else is going to start shunning me just because Harry and I had a bad break up.” She was silent for a moment, then went on. “And I guess...maybe I don’t care so much.”

“You don’t care if Potter ignores you?”

“Not as much as you do.” Ginny sat up so she could look down at Draco. “I know Harry’s going to come around, and until then, he can think whatever he likes about me. It doesn’t change the fact that I know I’m right— we weren’t working together, and one of us had to end it. You...you’re hinging your whole identity on whether or not Harry forgives you. You keep saying it matters because he’s the Chosen One or whatever, but I think it’s just that you  _ care _ .”

“You think I care what Potter thinks of me?” Draco layered as much scorn into his voice as he could.

“Yeah, I do. Maybe it’s because he used to be your nemesis or whatever. It’s symbolic. If he forgives you, you’re absolved. But, one, it’s not that easy, and two, Harry’s not that important.” 

“I know,” Draco said, as if Ginny were being ridiculous. But he felt a prickle of unease at her words. They were, perhaps, hitting a little close to home. He looked down at the half-empty chess board. “If I did want Potter to...to forgive me. What do I do?”

“Have you tried apologizing?”

“He wouldn’t stand close to me long enough for me to get the words out.”

Ginny sighed. “Harry has a temper, and he holds a grudge. It might just take time.” 

Draco wondered how much time it would take, and how much longer he could survive being shut in Grimmauld Place, sneaking about and pretending not to exist. He had no way of knowing when it would be safe to leave. He wasn’t a prisoner, but in the choice between “living at Grimmauld Place” and “dying by You-Know-Who’s hand,” Draco knew where he would land every time. 

Some of Draco’s misery must have shown on his face, because Ginny said, “He’ll come around, Draco. You’ve just got to keep trying.”

That night, after she left, Draco mulled over her words.  _ Keep trying _ . That was what he did, wasn’t it? He tried and he tried and he tried until something finally worked. He had repaired the Vanishing Cabinet. He had escaped  _ Iterum Vivere _ . Next to those, winning over Harry Potter should be easy.


	16. Dumbledore's Promise

Harry came down to breakfast one morning several days after his arrival at Grimmauld Place, and found Malfoy sitting in his chair. 

Technically, Harry didn’t  _ own _ the chair. Or, rather, he owned  _ all  _ of the chairs, so had no greater claim on this particular chair. But it was the chair he sat in at every meal. It was the chair Sirius used to sit in. Nobody else ever sat in that chair. And now here was Malfoy, blonde hair already neatly combed though it was only eight in the morning, chatting animatedly with a green-haired Tonks across the table. Harry opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. What exactly was he supposed to say?  _ Hey, that’s my chair? _ It would sound petty— childish, even. It wasn’t petty or childish— in fact, it was a very reasonable statement— but Harry couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that would demonstrate exactly how reasonable it was. 

So, lacking a better option, he went and sat as far away from Draco as was possible. As soon as he sat down, everyone else at the table stopped talking and looked at him. Harry realized he had made a mistake. Only Malfoy, Tonks, and George were at breakfast this early. Even Mrs. Weasley was still asleep (Kreacher had leapt at the opportunity to beat her to the breakfast-cooking punch). Which meant that Harry had sat at the far end of a table that could seat fourteen, leaving about ten empty chairs between him and everyone else, and he seemed just as petty and childish as if he had said  _ Hey, that’s my chair! _

“Er, can someone pass the bacon?” he asked, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Tonks raised one eyebrow, and picked up the plate of bacon that was resting near her elbow. She made a great show of passing it to George, who made an even bigger show of pushing it as far as he could reach down the long, empty stretch of table, then magicking it the rest of the way with his wand. Malfoy’s face remained impeccably neutral during the entire ordeal. 

His own face now absolutely burning, Harry scarfed down a few pieces of bacon and fled the kitchen as quickly as he could.

This was the first sign of a subtle shift that began to take place in Malfoy’s behavior. Where Malfoy used to vanish from a room every time Harry entered, he now remained. He didn’t retreat to his room right after dinner, instead lingering in the kitchen to talk to Lupin or help Mrs. Weasley with the washing up. He greeted Ron and Hermione when he saw them, pointedly ignoring Harry, even if all three of them entered a room at the same moment. It drove Harry up a wall, but no one else seemed to notice. 

“He’s goading me,” Harry said to Hermione and Ron one evening, when the three of them were shut up in Hermione’s room, passing around some elvish wine Ron had bribed Kreacher to unearth from the cellars. They were sprawled on the floor, Hermione and Harry leaning against the bed and Ron leaning against the dresser. An abandoned game of Exploding Snap lay in the center of their little circle, and the flickering light of the gas lamps gave everything a nostalgic glow that made Harry think of the Burrow at Christmas.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Hermione said. She was a bit pink-cheeked, and talking slightly too loudly. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “He’s just... _ everywhere _ .”

“Well, he does  _ live _ here,” Hermione said. “Actually, this is the first time in five years I think he’s  _ not _ goading you.”

“He— he’s being subtle about it,” Harry sputtered.

“I think you’re a bit obsessed, mate,” Ron said. He took a long swig from the bottle, and stifled a burp. “He doesn’t even talk to you.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Harry said automatically. He’d gotten so used to saying those words, it almost felt like deja vu. 

“You’re so used to fighting with him you don’t know what to do when it stops,” Hermione said, motioning for Ron to pass her the wine. 

“It’s my turn,” Harry snapped, grabbing the bottle out of Ron’s hand. He took a long sip, but didn’t miss the look Hermione and Ron exchanged. “Fine, think what you want,” he grumbled, passing the bottle to Hermione. “But I was right the first time. He  _ was _ up to something.”

“Yes, but he destroyed a horcrux for us, and proved under Veritaserum that he changed his loyalties. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, Harry. You know, make amends.” 

“Sure, and I’m a veela.”

Ron snorted. “Might explain some things. Like how any girl could be into you with a face like that.” 

Harry swatted at Ron, who yelped and toppled back into the dresser.

“Careful, Ron,” Hermione said, breaking down into giggles. “That’s your sister you’re talking about!”

“Not anymore it isn’t,” said a voice from the doorway, and all three of them jumped. They had all been too drunk to hear the door open. Harry turned around to see Ginny standing in the room, looking down at them with an expression of profound distaste. 

“Ginny!” Hermione yelped. “Ron, it’s Ginny.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Ron said, rubbing his head where it had hit the dresser. Hermione dissolved into giggles again.

“You might want to try and sober up a bit,” Ginny said. “Dumbledore’s coming tonight.”

Hermione stopped giggling. “Tonight?” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “Has something happened?”

Ginny shrugged. “Mum just told me. He wants to speak to you, Harry. Thought you might want a bit of a head’s up.” She gave the three of them a very pointed once-over, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Harry blurted, scrambling to his feet. He hadn’t thought he was very tipsy, but the moment he stood up the blood rushed to his head and he swayed. “Wait, can we— can we talk?”

Ginny surveyed Harry coolly, but the effect was slightly ruined by the pink dots that appeared on her cheeks. “Fine,” she said. She left the room, and Harry followed, doing his best to walk in a straight line. 

Outside, Harry shut the door to the bedroom and faced Ginny in the dim light coming from the floor’s lone chandelier far on the other end of the hall. Her expression had softened slightly, and she fiddled with the ends of her hair as she waited for Harry to speak.

“I just wanted to say—” Harry started. His thoughts were slightly murky, and he was starting to wonder if this had been a good idea. “I mean— I feel like things aren’t finished between us.”

“Harry,” Ginny sighed. “We’re not getting back together.”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “I know that.” 

As he spoke the words he realized they were true. His break up with Ginny still rested like a heavy pit in his stomach that squeezed painfully whenever he glimpsed her down a hallway, or caught her eye across the room. He still caught himself thinking about how beautiful she was when the light caught her hair, when she laughed. But another part of him, a part that had been growing in the weeks since Ginny ended things, realized that they didn’t fit together. There was the problem of Harry seeing Ginny as pure and innocent, someone he didn’t want to burden with the weight of his destiny. But it was more than that. Ginny got restless when Harry fell into one of his gloomier moods. She sighed and rolled her eyes, and sometimes avoided him. Harry sometimes got bored when Ginny started talking about the complex power dynamics and interpersonal intricacies of Quidditch teams, and once he had even blurted, “Can’t we just play the game?”, which had made her clam up and sulk the rest of the day. Harry and Ginny were good together, except when they weren’t. They were friends, but they had never figured out how to have a romance. 

“Oh,” Ginny said. “Good. Well, what did you want to say then?”

“I just wanted to say sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you more, and that things didn’t work out. And I want to be friends, if we can. I miss talking and stuff. Making fun of Ron.”

The corners of Ginny’s lips twitched. “I’m sorry too,” Ginny said. “And yeah. We don’t have to avoid each other anymore.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Except, I still am going to avoid you when you’re with Malfoy.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You should try talking to him, you know. Give him a chance to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said. “Apologize. I know you weren’t there when he was in that spell, but he...he’s changed. He’s not who you think he is. I’m not saying you have to be his best mate, but he actually wants to make amends with you, if he can. It’s bothering him.”

“I doubt that,” Harry said. “Very highly.”

Ginny shook her head, and for the first time she looked genuinely annoyed. “You’re so stubborn, Harry. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of.” 

She stalked off before Harry had the chance to say he wasn’t afraid, not at all. He was angry. Rightfully angry. She had it all completely wrong. 

When Harry returned to Hermione’s bedroom, the elf wine was nowhere to be seen. Ron was sprawled on the bed, snoring, and Hermione sat beside him. Her hand jerked when Harry entered the room, and he thought she might have been stroking Ron’s hair. 

“How was your talk?” she said quickly. 

“It was fine,” Harry said, sinking onto the end of the bed. He would have said it was good, if not for the last bit about Malfoy. Why was everyone so intent on him talking to the git? He hadn’t been the only one to hate Malfoy. Had he?

“I hope you two make up,” Hermione said. “That will be one less person in this place we have to avoid.”

“Sorry my personal life is so inconvenient for you,” Harry muttered. He wished he could take it back as soon as he said it, but Hermione just sighed.

“We need a vacation. Good thing we have the wedding to look forward to. If we had to spend the whole summer shut up in here, I think we all might just kill each other and save Voldemort the trouble.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “We might.”

By the time Dumbledore arrived that evening, Harry was no longer tipsy, but he did have a headache blossoming over his left eye, and all of his limbs felt like they were filled with lead. He heard Dumbledore greet Lupin in the hall, and both their voices faded as they moved into the drawing room. A few minutes later, Kreacher apparated to the top of the stairs, where Harry was waiting, and told him, between muttered insults, that his presence was requested in the drawing room.

When he entered, dragging his feet, Harry found Dumbledore seated in a large yellow armchair that hadn’t been there before. Lupin sat across from him on the sunken leather sofa, but as soon as Harry arrived, he got to his feet.

“Thank you, Albus,” he said with a nod to the headmaster, and left the room.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the place Lupin had just vacated, and Harry perched on the edge of the cushion.

“How are you, sir?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as on edge as he felt.

“Quite well. In fact, I believe I’ve made a bit of a breakthrough.” He smiled at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “Really? With what?”

“I’m sure you remember, Harry, that I told you a few weeks ago that I was working to track down another of Voldemort’s horcruxes.”

“Of course,” Harry said, his heartbeat quickening. So much had changed since those evenings in Dumbledore’s office. He had almost forgotten what Dumbledore was working on— and the promise he had made to Harry.

“I believe I have located the horcrux,” Dumbledore said. “In fact, I located it several weeks ago, and I was going to pursue it the night that you brought Mr. Malfoy to me with his startling revelation.”

“You know where it is?” The news travelled through Harry like fiendfyre, instantly burning away all of his other petty worries. Dumbledore had found a horcrux, and he had promised to bring Harry along to destroy it.  _ Finally _ .

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I believe that it will be quite dangerous to locate and destroy. I was already certain this was the case, but Mr. Malfoy confirmed it for me. Do you remember how he described the night on which he tried to kill me?”

“He found us on the Astronomy Tower,” Harry said. “With brooms. And you were…”

“Weakened,” Dumbledore said. “Yes. I believe that in this alternate course of events I did indeed pursue the horcrux that night, with you by my side, and that we returned injured. Perhaps already on the brink of death.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Harry blurted. “I want to go with you.”

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “I know, Harry. And you shall. I simply want you to be prepared for the dangers we will face. And I must ask you to promise that you will follow every order I give.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Even if I order you to leave me behind. To leave me to die.”

Harry swallowed. The idea of running to save himself while Dumbledore perished— it was unthinkable. But he knew Dumbledore wouldn’t let him come if he didn’t agree to this term. “Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore examined Harry closely, his blue eyes piercing straight through Harry’s lie. “You must swear to it, Harry.”

Harry tried to meet Dumbledore’s gaze without flinching. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard of his age. It wouldn’t come to that. “I swear,” he said. 

Dumbledore nodded. “Good. I will be back in a few nights’ time. All of this business with Mr. Malfoy has left me with a good deal of ends to tie up and leads to follow, but I’m almost finished. Be prepared, Harry.”

“Yes, sir.” 

With that Dumbledore bade him goodnight, and left.


	17. A Cup of Tea

One night near the end of July, Draco woke to a crack of thunder. Lying in the dark, he could hear the rain pounding on the roof, so heavy it almost sounded like hail. Perhaps it was. He knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. His insomnia had been getting worse by the day as the search for his parents grew more and more desperate, and the Order grew more and more tense. They were planning something, Draco could tell, and their meetings often went long into the night.

With a sigh Draco climbed out of bed and put on his slippers. It was nearly three a.m., according to the Grandfather clock in the hall. He padded softly down the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t be interrupting any late-night Order meetings. 

Luckily, there was no one about. Draco slipped into the dark, quiet kitchen and set about making himself some tea by wandlight. He was just settling down by the window to watch the rain and wait for the water to boil when a loud thump from the floor above startled him. He got to his feet, pulling out his wand, and crept out into the hall. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he heard another thump, and a few hissed curses. He recognized the voice at once.  _ Potter _ . Of course. 

He was going to creep back into the kitchen, return to his tea, and pretend he wasn’t at all curious as to why the Chosen One was sneaking home in the wee hours of the morning. But then he heard footsteps coming nearer, and Potter began to descend the stairs.

Cursing in his head, Draco scurried back into the kitchen where the tea kettle had just begun to whistle. He silenced it with a flick of his wand, but it was too late.

“Is someone there?” Potter called softly from outside the kitchen door, his voice oddly husky. Draco knew there was no escaping this.

“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. “I was just leaving.”

Potter pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside. Draco busied himself pouring his tea, but when he caught a glimpse of Potter, he did a double take. Potter was absolutely drenched, from his head to his trainers, dripping water onto the flagstones. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his t-shirt clung to his chest, nearly translucent in places. But this wasn’t what made Draco hesitate. It was Potter’s  _ face _ . He looked like he had seen a ghost— no, like he had watched someone die. His brown skin was bloodless and tinged with gray, his eyes rimmed with red. He didn’t so much look at Draco as look  _ through _ him, his eyes hollow and distant. It was the first time he had looked at Draco with anything but hatred, and somehow, this was worse.

“Potter,” Draco said. “What happened?”

The words seemed to shake Potter from some sort of trance. He swallowed visibly and stuffed his wand, which he had been clutching in one fist, into his pocket. “Nothing,” he said, entirely unconvincingly. “Nothing.”

“Do you...want me to wake Granger? Or Weasley?”

“No,” Potter said fiercely. He glanced over his shoulder as if afraid his friends would be summoned by the mere sound of their names. “I’m fine, I just need…” he looked around as if unsure of why exactly he was in the kitchen. “Er...a cup of tea. I just need a cup of tea.”

“Of course,” Draco said, glancing down at the tea steeping in his hands. “Here, have mine.” He pushed it across the counter towards Potter, who stared at it like he had never seen a cup of tea before. Draco turned away and pulled another cup from the cupboard, shaking some more tea leaves into the strainer. He poured out the rest of the water from the kettle and left the cup to steep. When he turned around, Potter had settled himself in one of the wooden chairs at the table, clutching the cup of tea to his chest. The sight of him there, soaking wet and looking like hell, his knees pulled up to his chest in the hard backed chair in the cold, dark kitchen, irritated Draco. What gave Potter the right to be so perfectly incompetent? He was supposed to be the Chosen One, but he couldn’t even lift his wand to dry his own clothes?

With a little huff Draco crossed the room and waved his wand over Potter. At once, the puddle under Potter’s chair vanished, and his clothes steamed as their moisture evaporated. His hair returned to its usual state of disarray. It was a sign of exactly how much of a state Potter was in that he didn’t leap away from Draco, or curse him on the spot. Instead he looked down at himself with an expression of mild confusion, then up at Draco with something like consternation.

“You were making a mess for Kreacher,” Draco sniffed. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he transfigured Potter’s chair into something a bit more comfortable, and cast a fire in the hearth on the far side of the room. Newly dried, lit by the flickering glow of the fire, Potter looked a bit less bedraggled. But Draco didn’t know a spell to erase that horrible blank look from his eyes. 

“I have to check on my tea,” he muttered, turning away from Potter. He picked up his cup and moved towards the door. There was no reason for him to stay in the kitchen. Potter would most likely recover in a moment or two, and when he did he would be furious with Draco. Draco had tried being cordial with Potter, had tried being polite, but the more effort Draco made, the angrier Potter became. He seemed to take it as some sort of taunt. 

But when Draco turned to leave, he saw Potter still sitting there, staring at the fire across the room. He hadn’t touched his tea, but he had begun to shiver. Draco could just make out the faint tremor of his hand, lying on the table. Draco hesitated. He knew the last thing in the world Potter would want was for Draco to comfort him. But he looked so positively pathetic. It would feel like a crime to leave him there like that.

Draco crossed the room in a few quick strides and took the seat opposite Potter, transfiguring his own chair into the sort of sumptuous leather armchair he preferred. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway. Might as well make trouble for himself.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re coming home at three in the morning?” he drawled, hoping a bit of good old fashioned taunting would get a rise out of Potter. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a lake.”

At the word lake, Potter flinched. He reached for his tea, lifted it to his lips, then hesitated and set it back down on the table. Draco thought he wasn’t going to respond. But then, in a low, raspy voice he said, “It’s a secret.”

Draco swallowed. He had suspected that Potter had been out on Order business; it didn’t exactly seem like his style to sneak out and go clubbing. And what else besides the soul-obliterating work of fighting an uphill battle against Voldemort would leave a person with that deadened look in their eye?

“I know about the horcruxes, you know,” Draco said. “I destroyed one of them, remember? I know that’s what you’re hunting.” He paused. “You found one, didn’t you?”

Harry sat still for a long moment, staring into his tea. Then he gave a quick nod.

“And you destroyed it?”

A twitch of his head; no, he hadn’t.

“You went alone?”

Another twitch. He hadn’t been alone. That, at least, was a relief. But then the relief flipped and sank in Draco’s stomach. Who had he gone with? Where was the other person now? As if in answer to the question Draco hadn’t asked, Potter looked up and met his gaze.

“Dumbeldore’s dead,” he whispered. 

For a moment, the words hung between them as Draco struggled to absorb their meaning. Then, everything crashed into place. Potter and Dumbledore had gone hunting a horcrux. They had found it, had fought for it, had maybe obtained it. But it must have been guarded or protected, perhaps even by Voldemort himself. Dumbledore hadn’t survived. And Harry had stumbled home in shock, where Draco, utterly oblivious, had made him tea and dried his clothes.

Draco stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “Drink your tea,” he said to Potter. “We have to wake the others.” 

He lifted his wand to send his Patronus to every sleeping person in Grimmauld Place, and to every other Order member whose location he knew. But something stopped him. He looked down at Potter, who seemed to have collapsed in on himself, his shivering intensifying into shuddering tremors that wracked his body. Draco lowered his wand and knelt in front of Potter’s chair.

“Potter,” he said. “Look at me. Look at me.” Green eyes met his, but they were somewhere else. Draco cast about for something else to say, some way to calm the horrible grief moving through Potter’s body, but there was nothing. The reality of the situation was beginning to settle in for Draco, too. Dumbledore was dead. The only wizard Voldemort ever feared, the man who had offered Draco his safety, who had promised to protect his parents. Their leader. “Look at me,” Draco said again, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’re safe now. You’re at Grimmauld Place. Do you want me to prove it? I could get Kreacher if you like, get him to mutter about filthy half-bloods. Or maybe you want me to wake up that awful portrait in the hall?” Merlin, what was he saying? Draco swallowed and grabbed Potter’s limp hand. He remembered how in his worst moments of panic, when he was certain Voldemort would kill him, he had dug his fingernails into his palm, desperately trying to drag himself back to his body. He squeezed Potter’s hand, and to his surprise, Potter squeezed back. He clung to Draco’s hand like it was the last thing tethering him to reality.

Draco let out a shaky breath. “I’ll stay right here,” he said. “I have to tell the others, but I’ll stay here.”

He lifted his wand with his free hand, and cast the Patronus, muttering the words he needed it to carry to all of the Order members who were, at the moment, blissfully unaware of what had happened.

He stayed where he was, holding Potter’s hand, until he heard the first footsteps thundering down the stairs. Then he stepped away, so when Lupin came barrelling into the room he found Draco standing by the window, and Potter huddled in the chair.

They called an emergency council. The Order members who didn’t live at Grimmauld Place began arriving, alone and in pairs, and gathered in the kitchen. Lupin stood somewhere near the stove, muttering to himself as he sent Patronus after Patronus out into the night. Whisps of silver hovered around him like a cloud. Ron, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley had formed a sort of phalanx around Potter, wrapping him in a blanket, trying to force him to drink his tea, and not letting anyone approach. Ginny hovered a few feet off, her arms wrapped around her torso, staring blankly at the floor. 

Draco moved towards her slowly, certain that at any moment some Order member would realize he was there and send him out of the room. But everyone was too wrapped up in their own horror, grief, and fear to take any notice of him.

“Hello,” Draco said when he reached Ginny. “Are you all right?”

Ginny lifted her head and met Draco’s gaze. There was a deep well of sadness in her eyes. “Not really,” she said.

“Perhaps that wasn’t the best question,” Draco said. He had the sudden urge to put his arm around Ginny’s shoulders, to comfort her, but he knew that would be a terrible idea. Someone would get it in their head that he was attacking her. 

“What are we going to do?” Ginny looked around the room, and Draco followed her gaze. Everything was chaos. Arthur Weasley was hunched over, his face in his hands. Mad-Eye Moody was clomping about the room, casting unnecessary protection charms and enemy-repelling hexes. Fred and George had produced a bottle of firewhiskey and were passing it around the room, but they looked haggard and frightened. No one had been able to coax Potter into speaking, so no one even knew what had happened. The only information any of them had was that Dumbledore, the most powerful of Voldemort’s enemies, was dead. 

At that moment, Kingsley Shacklebolt came striding into the kitchen, his purple robes sweeping majestically behind him. He paused in the entrance, his eyes passing over the dishevelled assembly, and caught sight of Lupin by the stove. The two locked eyes, and Shacklebolt moved quickly to join him. They conferred for a minute, their heads bent together. Then Shacklebolt turned and stood behind the counter like it was a podium, surveying the rest of the Order with a deeply solemn expression.

“I am sorry you were all dragged from your beds tonight,” he said. “And even more sorry for the circumstances that bring us here.”

A hush descended on the kitchen. Everyone stopped muttering amongst themselves and turned to look at Shacklebolt. Even Mad Eye stopped jinxing everything in sight, though he looked like he would have liked to continue.

“I am here to confirm what we all learned tonight. Albus Dumbledore is indeed dead.”

Several people gasped, and renewed murmurs broke out. One witch let out a heartrending wail and buried her face in another witch’s shoulder. Shacklebolt raised his hand, and silence fell again.

“This is a terrible blow to the Order, and a terrible blow to each of us who knew Albus. He was a great man, and we will mourn him in a way befitting the extraordinary life he lived.” Shacklebolt paused before he continued. “But tonight, there are urgent matters to attend to. We have only hours before the Ministry learns of Dumbledore’s passing, and what the Ministry knows, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows. It is imperative that we remain as strong and united without Albus as we were with him. And it is imperative that we discover how he died, and protect ourselves from any imminent danger.”

“I know how Albus died,” a cool voice drawled from the back of the room. Draco spun around— as did the rest of the Order— to see Severus Snape ensconced in the shadows at the back of the room.

“How?” someone cried. 

“Bet he killed him,” Ron Weasley muttered. Beside him, Potter remained catatonic, not even reacting to the sudden appearance of his professorial nemesis.

“Come forward,” Shacklebolt said. “Severus, please. Tell us what you know.” 

Snape leaned forward slightly so the light from the fire fell on the pale mask of his face. “I don’t know what happened tonight,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to carry across the room. The kitchen was so silent Draco could hear the crackle of the fire in the hearth and someone's faint, shuddering breaths. “But I do know that Albus was preparing for his death.”

Urgent whispers rippled through the assembled Order members. 

“Liar!” someone hissed. Shacklebolt raised a quelling hand and uneasy silence returned.

“I’m sure none of you failed to notice the injury Albus sustained last summer. His hand.” Severus’s eyes moved from face to face, as if daring anyone to challenge him. “He received that injury as a result of his efforts to weaken Lord Voldemort.” A shudder moved through the room at the sound of that name. Draco shuddered too— not because Snape had said Voldemort, but because he had said  _ Lord _ . “Albus was struck by a deadly curse. He came to me, and I did everything I could to contain the curse and keep him alive. But I could not reverse its effects. From the moment he touched the cursed object, he was dying.”

Severus paused, and nobody stirred. Nobody, that is, besides Potter; Draco saw his head turn ever so slightly towards Snape. 

“I have no doubt that Albus died tonight because he was already weakened. Perhaps the curse simply ran its course, or perhaps it combined with some other injury.”

Draco looked at Shacklebolt, who watched Snape with utter neutrality, his face betraying nothing. After a silence that seemed to stretch between the two men like a tightening thread, Shacklebolt inclined his head.

“Thank you for telling us this, Severus. We know, then, why our enemy was capable of— why Albus—” For the first time, Shacklebolt’s voice shook. He swallowed visibly, and looked over his shoulder at Lupin, who stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. Lupin stepped forward, laying a hand on Shacklebolt’s shoulder.

“It is important that we discover how Albus died. But I also feel it is important we recover his body.” His eyes moved to Potter, curled in the chair Draco had transfigured. “Harry,” Lupin said. “I know you’re not ready to talk. But if you could tell us where—”

“He’s gone,” Potter said suddenly. His voice was low and hoarse, and Lupin fell silent at once. “We can’t get him back.”

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said soothingly. “I understand this has been terrible for you. If you could share with us where you were, we might be able to recover…” he trailed off, as if unable to bring himself to say “his body.”

Potter shook his head, and refused to say anything more. Shacklebolt looked like he wanted to push, but Lupin cut in before he could.

“In that case,” Lupin said. “We should focus our attention on leadership. I propose a vote. Albus has acted as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix since he created it during the first war. It is impossible to replace him, but we can’t move forward without a strong and united front.”

“A vote sounds good,” Tonks said thickly. Her hair, which had been magenta the day before, had faded to mousy brown streaked with gray. She looked older, not just because of her hair but because of the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“Good,” Lupin said. “Anyone interested in being considered should submit their names to Doris by tomorrow evening. We’ll vote then.”

“For now,” Shacklebolt said, “I suggest that everyone get what little sleep they can. Be safe, all of you.”

With that, the meeting adjourned. There was a flurry of movement as the Order members rushed to confer with one another, gathering in knots all around the room. A couple of them ambushed Shacklebolt as he tried to leave, berating him with questions. Draco turned to look at Potter. Mrs. Weasley was helping him to his feet, probably about to whisk him away to his room where he couldn’t be interrogated by frightened witches and wizards. This was undoubtedly a good idea; Draco could already see people casting curious looks in Potter’s direction, apparently only held at bay by the fact that Granger was guarding Potter with her wand at her side, a fierce expression on her face. As Mrs. Weasley guided Potter towards the door, Draco had the sudden urge to follow them. He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish with this. Potter didn’t want comfort from Draco, of all people. The only reason Draco had a role in all of this was because he had happened to be the only person in the kitchen when Potter returned. But he couldn’t shake the image of Potter’s haunted face from his mind. 

As he wrestled with this strange urge, Draco caught a glimpse of a dark figure slipping through the crowd to the door. Snape. On a sudden impulse, Draco pushed after him, ducking around Potter and Mrs. Weasley, and following Snape up the stairs. He caught up to his former professor in the front hall.

“Professor,” he called, slightly out of breath, and Snape stopped, turning to fix Draco with a cool, impartial stare. 

“Do you need something, Draco?”

Draco swallowed. He hadn’t spoken to Snape alone since before the _iterum vivere_ spell, since before the events that both had and had not occurred on the Astronomy Tower. Standing this near to Snape drew him back to another time, and brought back the mixture of fury and terror he had felt when Snape tried to pry information out of him. After Draco broke the _iterum vivere_ spell and defected, Dumbledore had informed him that Snape was a spy for the Order. But of course, Draco had spent years believing the opposite, and Snape was equally convincing in either role. 

“Is it true?” he asked, with as much of an imperious tone as he could muster. “What you said about Dumbledore’s hand. Was that the truth?”

Snape smirked. “Are you doubting  _ my _ loyalties?” 

Draco flushed. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “I’ve heard two different stories.”

A flicker of fury crossed Snape’s face and, for a moment, Draco thought he was going to storm off without answering. But then he said, “You’re not the only one who has been hurt by the Dark Lord.”

He held Draco’s gaze, his eyes boring into Draco’s with unbearable intensity until Draco was forced to look away. “I had to ask,” Draco muttered.

“It is wise to doubt the people you are meant to trust,” Snape said. “Loyalty must be proven. But I assure you, I have proven my loyalty to Dumbledore a thousand times over.”

Draco looked back at Snape. “You were the only one who knew about his injury. He must have had a lot of trust in you.”

“He didn’t want his weakness widely known,” Snape said. “But you’re right. That injury was the not the only thing he entrusted to me.” 

Draco couldn’t reconcile Snape’s words with the bitterness in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Snape hesitated. His eyes flicked to the empty hall over Draco’s shoulder. “Our  _ wise _ leader left me with several tasks. Trust always comes at a price.”

“Tasks? You mean for fighting the Dar— for fighting You-Know-Who?”

“These are secrets he did not even entrust to the Order. What makes you think I’m going to confide them in you?” Snape sneered, but his eyes darted over Draco’s shoulder again. He seemed nervous. Perhaps he had said more than he meant to say.

“Are you saying you have information about defeating You-Know-Who that the Order doesn’t have?” 

“That’s enough, Draco,” Snape said abruptly. “Good night.” He turned on his heel, his cloak whipping behind him, and strode to the front door. A gust of wind burst into the hall when he opened it, and Draco caught a glimpse of the rain driving down outside in the glow of a streetlamp. Then Snape shut the door and was gone. 

Draco didn’t make it back to his bed until the sun had nearly cleared the horizon. Grimmauld Place had emptied out slowly, with some Order members departing to take care of whatever it was that needed doing now that Dumbledore was gone, and others catching a few hours of sleep on various beds and sofas throughout the house. 

Alone in his room, Draco found the silence oppressive. He paced back and forth, his mind cycling through the events of the early morning again and again, unable to follow the thread of a thought or stop thinking. Dumbledore was dead. The man Draco had spent years despising and, if he was honest with himself, fearing. The man who had welcomed him into the Order when few others would have. Draco had no illusions about the fact that most of the Order had accepted him almost entirely because Dumbledore trusted him. Now that Dumbledore was gone, would anyone vouch for him? Would they let him stay? And what would become of his parents, who had yet to be found? Would anyone bother to keep looking? If he was honest, he couldn’t blame them if they decided not to. What did the lives of two unrepentant Death Eaters matter when there was a war to be fought?

That thought tore through Draco like a jagged knife, and he slumped onto his bed. It was so strange, that he was able to see his family from the outside like that. It was like splitting in two. One half of him was a boy who knew his parents, who longed to hear their voices again, to see them safe. The other was a very tired man who could look through the eyes of others, and see the arrogant, cruel people his parents were to the world. Not to him— but to other people who lived and felt and mattered. How could he hold both those things inside himself? It felt like it would tear him apart.

Leaning back against the headboard, Draco let his eyes slide closed, let the wave of unreconcilable feelings roll over him. He could lose himself in it, let everything that was  _ Draco _ drift away. Let go. 

Then he remembered Potter, sitting hollow-eyed in the kitchen, and felt abruptly small. He had never seen Potter like that before. He had seen him angry, seen him exhausted and frustrated, had even seen him defeated. He had never seen him haunted. But of course Potter was haunted. The list of things he had to be haunted by was almost comically long. The deaths, the prophecies, the war. Draco had just lost a lifeline, but Potter had just lost the last guide he had in his impossible maze of a destiny. 

Unable to speak, unable even to glare, Potter had seemed different. Less...unbearable. He had seemed like a person who, Draco now realized, was on the same losing side of a war as he was. 

At some point Draco drifted off, his thoughts slowly mutating into senseless dreams. There was a party at Grimmauld Place, and Death Eaters danced and laughed with Order members in the drawing room...Kreacher brought Dumbledore’s head out on a platter, muttering about his ancient masters...Potter reached for Draco’s hand in the kitchen, knocking over his cold tea...Draco slid into Potter’s lap, their faces only centimeters apart…

_ Fuck _ . Draco woke up with a start, his whole body heavy and his brain foggy, but unfortunately not foggy enough to forget what he had dreamt.  _ Not again. _ It was absolutely horrible timing, for one thing. It seemed indecent to have a dream like that just hours after Dumbledore had died. And for another thing, he shouldn’t have had that dream in the first place. He wasn’t under Potter’s enchantment any more. There was no excuse.

Someone knocked loudly on Draco’s door and he sat bolt upright in bed.

“Draco? Mum wants to know if you’re hungry.” It was Ginny.

“I’ll be right down,” Draco croaked. He thought resolutely of unarousing things, like being defeated at Quidditch and Muggle jeans, and vowed to put the dream out of his mind. It didn’t mean anything. 


	18. The New Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading so far!! I really appreciate your comments :) I think this chapter is about the halfway point!

When Harry next saw Malfoy, he noticed, dully, that he felt not even a flicker of animosity. The Slytherin entered the kitchen, where the vote was being held, with his head bowed, a few lank strands of blonde hair falling over his eyes. His eyes darted to Lupin, Kingsley, and Tonks at the head of the room, then to Harry, then returned to his own shoes. He found a place to stand at the back of the room, not far from where Snape had stood in the early hours of the morning.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” Lupin said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. The always-prominent circles under his eyes were dark and hollow. To his left, Kingsley stood with his hands crossed in front of him and his head bowed. On Lupin’s other side, Tonks surveyed the room with a resolute expression, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. They all looked like warriors, and they all looked older than their years. “As of right now,” Lupin continued. “A vote is hardly necessary. There is only one nominee for our new leader, someone whose expertise as an auror and dedication to this fight would make her an ideal candidate. If anyone would like to object to the election of Nymphadora Tonks as commander of the Order, please speak now.”

Silence reigned. Tonks nodded, and shook both Lupin and Kingsley’s hands with an air of solemnity. A sudden wave of grief rose in Harry, and it was all he could do to keep the tears gathering in his eyes from spilling over. The Tonks he knew was nowhere to be seen. The Lupin he once knew— the professor who paced the classroom with a gleam in his eye— was gone, too. And Kingsley’s deep laugh and wry comments seemed like they belonged to another person. Was this what the war was going to be? Fighting and losing until nothing remained even of the survivors?

Harry wanted to flee. He wanted to run from the kitchen, escape the grim heaviness of the Order, simply disappear. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dumbledore shuddering as Harry forced one more cup of poison through his lips, saw his pale arm disappearing below the surface of the lake as the inferi took him for good, forever...Harry gripped his hands together, squeezing tightly until the touch brought him back to the present. It made him think of Malfoy squeezing his hand in the wee hours of the morning. Harry had been nearly lost to the world, moving in a fog. He couldn’t remember how he had managed to return to Grimmauld Place without splinching himself. Then there was Malfoy, like a specter in the kitchen, offering him tea, blathering about nothing. Like a person Harry had never met. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if Malfoy hadn’t been there. Would Mrs. Weasley have come down to make breakfast and found him sitting there, still wet, still in shock?

Tonks stepped forward, her eyes moving over the crowd assembled before her. Mr. Weasley with his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Mundungus looking shifty in the corner. Fred and George, Ginny, Mad-Eye Moody, Professor McGonagall. Although Harry couldn’t see Ron or Hermione, he could feel them behind him, their anxious energy palpable.

“I’m grateful to all of you,” Tonks said. “Not just for trusting me with this task, but for everything you have brought to this fight. For every sacrifice you’ve made. I won’t let you down, and though I may not be able to fill Dumbledore’s shoes, I will do everything in my power to honor his memory.” 

A few people started to clap, and after a moment the rest of the room joined in. The applause swelled, and Fred and George even whistled. For a moment the energy in the room lifted, but it didn’t take Harry with it. He watched a fragile hope grow on the faces of the people he loved, and felt empty. 

He reached a hand into the pocket of his jeans, and ran a finger over the edge of the locket there. The fake locket. The trick Dumbledore had died for. One more life lay heavy on Harry’s shoulders, not to mention the future of everyone in the wizarding world. Five more horcruxes.

No— four. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who hadn’t joined in the applause. He held himself stiffly, his eyes darting around as if he expected to be noticed and sent away at any moment. For a moment, Harry felt a modicum of relief. Somehow, four horcruxes were so much lighter than five.

From the moment she was given command, Tonks began whipping the Order into shape. Unlike Dumbledore, who was often gone for weeks at a time, Tonks set up an office in a room adjacent to the drawing room and sequestered herself there almost all day, while a rotating cast of Order members came in and out, discussing strategy and passing along information. She divided everyone into task forces with specific goals and mandated monthly Order-wide meetings.

The first time Harry felt a truly strong emotion after Dumbledore’s death was when he learned he would not be assigned to a task force.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Tonks said, grimacing, when he confronted her in her office. “It’s not personal. I’m not enlisting underage wizards.”

“I’m barely underage,” Harry said, getting to his feet. His birthday was less than two weeks away. Ron and Hermione, who were only a few months older, had each received an assignment. “And I’m a part of this war whether I want to be or not.”

Tonks sighed. Her hair had shifted to a deep auburn color with an undercut that gave her her round face an added air of authority. “I’m sorry, my decision is final. But there is something I wanted to ask you.”

“What?” Harry asked petulantly.

“Did Dumbledore give you any information that you think it might be important for the Order to have? Anything that could help us get a leg up on You-Know-Who?”

Harry hesitated. He could feel the weight of the fake locket in his pocket. But Dumbledore had sworn him to secrecy. The horcruxes were his mission. No matter how much he wanted to lay that responsibility at Tonks’s feet, he couldn’t; there was no evading his destiny.

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”

Tonks’s eyes narrowed, and she studied him for a moment. But he met her gaze steadily, and eventually she sighed.

“It’s no fun being the commander, Harry. I used to be quite popular, you know.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, I know.” He paused. “I still think you’re cool. I like the hair.”

Tonks smiled too. A tired smile, but a smile all the same. “I wanted to do Hufflepuff colors, but I haven’t figured out how to do that without looking like a bumblebee.”

“Maybe you should petition the new headmistress to change the house colors.” Harry had meant it to be lighthearted, but the reminder that Dumbledore was gone settled over them like a storm cloud.

“Yeah,” Tonks said softly. “Maybe I will.”

On his way out of the office, Harry ran smack dab into Malfoy hurrying in the opposite direction. A tall stack of scrolls went flying out of his arms and scattered across the floor of the corridor. 

“In the name of—” Malfoy cried, stopping abruptly when he looked up and saw Harry.

“Er, sorry,” Harry said, crouching down to gather some of the scrolls. 

“No, it was my fault.” Malfoy swept his green cloak behind him and knelt, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. He kept his eyes down and swept the scrolls up as quickly as he could. Harry watched him, sensing the tension that radiated from his body. Was Malfoy...afraid to be around him? 

They both stood, and Harry handed his armful of scrolls to Malfoy, who piled them hastily on top of his own. 

“Well—” Malfoy began, but Harry cut him off.

“What are these for?”

Malfoy hesitated. “It’s— they’re for the Order. Tonks assigned me to a task force.” He lifted his chin with the slightest hint of defiance.

“She— are you of age?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” 

“Oh.” Harry glanced away, unsure of what else there was to say. He didn’t want to let Malfoy go, though. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kitchen, about Malfoy taking his hand. “Look, I—” He stopped when, to his horror, heat rushed to his cheeks. He couldn’t do this. What was he even going to say?

“You what, Potter?” There was the slightest hint of the old Malfoy disdain in his voice.

“Just— you can call me Harry, okay?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and the slightest brush of pink appeared high on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I think I must have misheard you.”

“We’re both in the Order, now. We know each other’s names. We might as well use them.” Harry avoided Malfoy’s eye as he said this, wondering what on Earth had motivated him to do it. Malfoy was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was even and emotionless.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. You can call me Draco, if you wish.”

“Okay. Draco.” 

The pink in Malfoy’s cheeks deepened. No— the pink in _Draco’s_ cheeks.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m meant to be meeting with Tonks at the moment.”

“Right. Of course.” Harry moved out of Draco’s way, and Draco slipped past him into Tonks’s office. 

Harry glanced to the stairs at the end of the hall, and caught sight of Ginny standing on the landing above, watching him with a bemused smile. His face grew even hotter. 

“What?” he said gruffly.

“Oh, nothing,” Ginny said, turning away. She looked back over her shoulder with a grin. “Nothing at all,  _ Harry _ .”

“I thought this is what you wanted me to do,” Harry muttered, too quietly for Ginny to hear. 

If anything, Harry’s exchanges with Draco became even more painfully awkward after their meeting outside of Tonks’s office. Harry started making an effort to say hello and goodbye to Draco, to treat him like he was present, but he couldn’t seem to do so in a casual way. He always spoke too loudly, or his words came out stilted or in a rush. Once, he accidentally said “sweet dreams” when Draco left the kitchen to go to bed, and he had to quickly pretend he had been trying to remember the title of a song. He wasn’t sure anyone believed that. To make matters worse, Draco wore a pained expression every time he spoke to Harry; a face somewhere between mortified and constipated. 

“Watching you two try to talk to each other,” Hermione said one morning at breakfast, shaking her head. “It’s  _ painful _ .”

“It’s like watching a hippogriff try to sing Celestina Warbeck,” Ron said.

“I think they’re making progress,” Lupin said fairly, passing the butter to Kingsley, who just shook his head and laughed. 

“Hard to let old grudges die, am I right, Harry?” Bill said, leaning back in his chair so his lean torso was on full display in the thin jumper he wore.

Harry made a valiant effort to sink into his chair and disappear. He had always rather hoped Bill would think he was cool. That prospect was beginning to seem less and less likely.

“Speaking of old grudges,” Ginny said breezily. “When is good old Phlegm arriving?”

Bill let his chair drop back onto all four legs, scowling. “ _ Fleur _ won’t be staying here. She’s coming to the Burrow when we go back there to get everything ready. Speaking of which, have you even started packing?” 

Much to Harry’s relief, the conversation shifted to wedding preparations. He listened with half his brain while Bill went over the final lineup for the wedding party. The rest of his mind began to wander, as it so often did, to the horcruxes. Where to look next? What to look for? He had thought he would have more time with Dumbledore, that Dumbledore would give him more information, more leads. He had even expected that Dumbledore would be searching right alongside him. But according to Snape, Dumbledore had known he didn’t have much time left. So why didn’t he tell Harry more, prepare him more? He had almost nothing to go on.

Harry was beginning to think about not returning to Hogwarts in the fall. How could he, with Voldemort getting stronger by the day? What did it matter if he graduated school, if the whole wizarding world was destroyed?

“What is it?” Hermione whispered, leaning across Harry to snag a sausage.

“What?”

“You’re thinking about something.”

Harry shrugged. “The usual.” He felt Ron lean closer on his other side.

“Let’s talk later,” Hermione said. “I’ve been doing a bit of planning.”

The idea that Hermione had been thinking about horcruxes too, had been planning, made Harry’s throat tighten. Sometimes he forgot he wasn’t the only one. 


	19. The Burrow

When Draco saw Tonks approaching him at the breakfast table two days after she was appointed head of the Order, he thought she was coming to officially kick him out of Grimmauld Place now that his chief defender was dead. Instead, she offered him a place on one of her task forces.

“Are you sure?” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. Tonks raised an eyebrow.

“What, did you think I was going to turn you out on the streets? First of all, you know way too many secrets. That would be suicide.”

“Of course, but--”

“And we’re not keeping you around for your good looks. We need all the help we can get.”

“I meant— I suppose I wasn’t sure how much you trusted me.”

Tonks grinned. “Come on, Draco. Don’t be such a Slytherin.”

And Draco realized, suddenly, that he was already a member of the Order. He wasn’t sure how long that had been true, but it had happened at some point without his noticing. Now, even Potter—  _ Harry _ , as he insisted on being called— seemed to accept his presence, however grudgingly. A great weight lifted from Draco's shoulders, but it left him feeling off-kilter. 

The tasks Tonks gave Draco were not exactly of the heroic sort, but he didn’t mind. As a member of the Correspondence Task Force, he was charged with managing the owls that came and went daily from the hub of Grimmauld Place. He searched the mail for dangerous jinxes, delivered it to its intended recipients, and often took dictation for Tonks’s less classified letters. Although it wasn’t part of the job description, Draco also took great pleasure in converting a particularly hideous upstairs parlor into an owlery. He divided an empty bookshelf into individual owl nooks, and kept the owls— permanent residents and interlopers— fed and watered on a daily schedule. 

Draco quite admired Tonks’s leadership, and was glad someone had decided to take the Order in hand. It had all seemed a bit haphazard before, which didn’t bode well for the outcome of the war. Now, everything was strictly organized, and running much more efficiently. There was only one flaw in it all, but unfortunately, it was a major one. Draco discovered it one day when he was taking dictation for Tonks. She stood behind her desk, rattling off the contents of a letter while sorting through what looked like a pile of maps. 

“...thank you once again for the gift. In regards to your request, I have tried to speak to our oldest friend, but he won’t say any more.”

Draco paused, his quill hovering over the page. In the short time he had been working with Order correspondence, he had gained some familiarity with their coded language. A “gift” usually meant valuable information. But that wasn’t what had given Draco pause. “Oldest friend,” he had discovered, meant Harry Potter. Tonks had spoken to Harry, and Harry wouldn’t tell her something? What could he have to hide from the commander of the Order?

“Draco?” Tonks said. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Draco said quickly, dipping his quill in ink and resuming his task. But a sneaking suspicion had taken root, reigniting a worry that had been hovering in the back of his mind since he had spoken to Snape the morning of Dumbledore’s death. He was starting to think that the pre-Tonks Order hadn’t simply been disorganized; it had been  _ divided _ , and intentionally so. 

When Tonks dismissed Draco from his duties that evening, he ascended the stairs with every intention of going straight to his room. But as he passed the door to Hermione’s bedroom, he heard hushed voices on the other side, and paused. He couldn’t make out any words, but he recognized the cadence of Ron Weasley’s voice. His whisper sounded urgent. Draco had a strong feeling he knew what they were talking about, holed up together in a covert conference. The Trio of Secrets, a closed link within the circle of the Order. 

_ Don’t be such a Slytherin _ , Tonks had said when she assigned Draco his role in the Order. But she had it wrong. Slytherins didn’t trust easily, but a true Slytherin, one not corrupted by the desire for power, knew that trust among the loyal was essential to success— essential to survival. Secrets were power, but trust was strength. And Slytherins weren’t the only ones who occasionally forgot this.

Draco raised his fist and knocked on the door with three sharp raps. The voices cut off at once, and there was a long silence. Draco was about to leave, certain no one would answer the door, when the doorknob finally turned and Hermione poked her nose out. When she saw Draco, her eyes widened.

“Draco,” she said, far too loudly. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Draco said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something important to discuss with you. All three of you.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and back at Draco. She hesitated, then let the door fall open. “I— come in.”

Behind her, Ron was sprawled on the bed, and Harry sat cross-legged at Ron’s feet, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. Draco’s eyes fell on Harry’s bare chest, and he was forcibly reminded of his embarrassing dreams. Pushing them firmly out of his mind, he stepped into the room, and stood awkwardly by the door while Hermione took a seat beside Ron on the bed. Harry and Ron stared at him like he was a wizard at a vampire convention. Draco began to wonder if this had been a horrible idea.

“Hello,” he said again. “I...I need to ask you something. About the Order.”

Harry’s expression grew serious. “What is it?”

Draco hesitated, then decided it was probably best to get right out with it. “Does Tonks know that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has horcruxes?”

The Trio exchanged a meaningful look. 

“Well— no,” Hermione said. Ron glared at her. “It’s a secret. Dumbledore told Harry not to share it with anyone.”

“Except us,” Ron said, somehow puffing his chest out while in a reclined position. 

“So you’re telling me Tonks is trying to organize a revolution without any knowledge of the Dark Lord’s only weakness?”

“It’s not like that,” Harry said fiercely. “It’s something I have to do. On my own.”

“Why?” Draco said.

“Look, mate, I don’t really see how this is any of your business,” Ron said, sitting up. 

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but Harry was glowering at him, and Hermione was frowning deeply, and Ron looked like he wouldn’t say no to a duel.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Draco said, looking away. “I just don’t see what use it is to keep secrets amongst ourselves.”

“Amongst—” Ron began, but Hermione swatted him before he could finish. It didn’t matter. Draco knew what he had been about to say. Draco lifted his chin, staring Ron down with ice in his eyes. But beneath his defiance, Draco felt something crumble. How could he have been so presumptuous as to consider himself part of an _us_?

“I’m not trying to keep secrets,” Harry said levelly, as if Ron hadn’t spoken. “What I have to do— it’s dangerous. I can’t ask anyone else to be involved.”

“And the rest of what the Order does isn’t dangerous?” Draco regretted his words at once; whatever thin ice of congeniality had formed between him and Harry shattered.

"Are you calling me a _coward_?" Harry's voice was low and dangerous.

Draco swallowed. “No. Of course not. I’m sorry I bothered you," he said. Then he turned on his heel and fled.

He was halfway down the hall, cursing himself and his inability to stay out of trouble, when he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Hermione hurrying after him. He paused to let her catch up, wondering if she was going to punch him a second time. Maybe he deserved it.

But she stopped beside him, hands mercifully at her side. “I think you’re right,” she said, before Draco could speak. “I...I just wanted you to know that.” She stood under a gas lamp, her face thrown into golden light and stark shadows. Something about the tilt of her chin reminded Draco, absurdly, of his mother. Specifically, the expression she wore when someone challenged her.

“Well, thank you,” Draco said. “You may be the only one. Everyone seems intent on keeping their secrets.”

“Harry really believes it has to be just him in the end. Alone. It’s all Ron and I can do to get him to let  _ us _ in. Maybe if you talked to him…”

“Me?” Draco scoffed. 

“I don’t know. He might listen to a fresh perspective.”

“I already tried,” Draco said. “It’s going to take a lot more than my word to convince Harry of anything. He’s a bit stubborn, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “You know, for someone who can’t have a half-coherent conversation with Harry, you actually know him quite well.”

Draco sputtered in protest, and Hermione just shrugged and turned away, retreating down the hall and back to Harry’s room.

The idea that Order members were keeping secrets from one another plagued Draco for the next few days. Dumbledore had forbade him from telling anyone about the horcruxes, but he had assumed that  _ some _ Order members knew, and that Harry would have certainly confided in Tonks now that Dumbledore was dead. How could Harry not realize how ridiculous it was to take on all of You-Know-Who’s horcruxes alone?

As the Weasleys began to work themselves into a wedding frenzy, Tonks buried herself in her office, poring over maps and diagrams. Draco brought her lunch and tea when he could, and the more he watched her driving herself to distraction over her plans, the angrier he became with Harry. What kind of arrogance did it take for a sixteen year old boy to decide he had the right to control the flow of information in a  _ war _ ? The only thing that kept Draco from telling Tonks himself was the thought of what Harry would do to him if he did. 

So when Draco came down to make himself a cup of tea at four in the morning and found Harry already in the kitchen, working his way through a stack of toast nearly as tall as Kreacher, he decided to give Hermione’s plan a shot.

Harry looked up when Draco entered, and greeted him with a grunt and a wave, his mouth full of toast and his lips dusted with crumbs. His hair was a tangle on top of his head, and he was, once again, dressed in nothing but his pajama bottoms. 

“Hello,” Draco said, quickly averting his eyes and making a beeline for the kettle. He dawdled as long as he could making his tea, trying to wrangle his sleep-deprived brain into producing some coherent thoughts. When he returned to the table, Harry was still only halfway through his stack of toast.

“Are you actually going to eat all of that?” Draco asked, taking the seat across from him. 

Harry paused, looked down at his plate, then swallowed. “You want some?” he asked, pushing the plate towards Draco.

“Oh. Er. No, thank you.” Draco took a long sip of his tea, and Harry shoved another piece of toast in his mouth. When the silence between them had stretched far too long, Draco cleared his throat. “How long have you known about the horcruxes?” he asked.

Harry stopped chewing. For a moment he just stared at Draco. Then he swallowed again, and said, “Not long.”

“So, not since first year.”

Harry snorted, startling Draco. “God, I would have been fucking terrified.”

It seemed that four-in-the-morning-Harry had less animosity towards Draco than regular-hours-Harry. “And you aren’t terrified now?”

“I am. I was terrified then, too, come to think of it. Do you remember, in the forest—?”

“The thing drinking the unicorn?” Draco grimaced. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was.”

They lapsed into another silence. This time, it was Harry who broke it.

“Everything in my life has been leading to this. The horcruxes, killing Voldemort. He chose me, when I was a baby. He decided it had to be me.” He stared at the table as he spoke, running one finger along a swirl in the wood grain.

“Who says he had to be right?” Draco asked. 

“Dumbledore said it doesn’t matter what the prophecy says, because no matter what, I’m going to want to kill him. Because of what he’s done.”

“Is that true?”

“Of course,” Harry said at once. His eyebrows drew together, and the corners of his lips turned down. 

And Draco couldn't help pressing. “I think that’s true of everyone in the Order,” he said. “Tonks has barely been eating or sleeping since she became commander. Kingsley risks his life every day going to the ministry.”

Harry looked up sharply. “I’m not saying—”

“I know you’re not,” Draco interrupted. “I know.” Harry glared at him, his green eyes glinting in the light from the chandelier above. Draco met his gaze steadily, and eventually, Harry’s eyes dropped back to the table. 

He looked sleepy and vulnerable, and Draco felt suddenly guilty. Would Harry be telling him any of these things under normal circumstances? 

He gulped the rest of his tea in one, and got to his feet.

“Well, goodnight, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry corrected automatically.

“Yes, whatever.”

One morning, four days before the Weasley wedding was set to take place, Draco came downstairs to find the front hall filled with assorted luggage and a flurry of red-headed activity.

“What’s happening?” Draco asked, waylaying Ginny when she tried to hurry past him with one slipper in her hand. 

“We’re leaving,” she said, as if this ought to be perfectly obvious.

“Yes, but  _ why _ ?”

“Didn’t I tell you? We’re all going back to the Burrow to get ready for Bill’s wedding.” Ginny rolled her eyes at the word wedding.

“Ah.” Draco pursed his lips. “Well, enjoy the festivities. I’ll see you in a few days?”

Ginny frowned. “Wait. Did I forget—?” She reached for a small rucksack that was hanging from the banister and began to dig through its pockets. “Here it is!” She produced a crumpled gold envelope from the bag and shoved it into Draco’s hands. “You can come down the night before with everyone else. We’ll sort a disguise for you and everything, it’ll be completely safe.”

Draco looked down at the envelope in his hands as Ginny hurried off. He knew what it was, but even so, he was afraid to open it and discover that it wasn’t what he thought. Finally, he tore it open. 

_ You are hereby invited to the nuptial ceremony of William Arthur Weasley and Fleur Isabelle Delacour _ .

Draco stopped reading, finding that his throat was suddenly tight. It was silly, really, to care about a wedding he had very little to do with. There was no reason the Weasleys should have invited him. But they had. 

And Draco had nothing to wear.

The last few days before the wedding were unusually calm at Grimmauld Place. Without the Weasleys, the house felt lifeless and huge. Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley were the only Order members who were reliably present, and Harry and Hermione tended to keep to themselves— probably, Draco thought, so they could continue plotting away from prying ears.

The mood in the house, however, lifted at the prospect of a wedding. Tonks sprouted a head full of bright blue curls that gave her a distinctly bizarre appearance, but seemed to reflect an internal brightness that also manifested in her more frequent smiles, and the tunes she hummed while she worked. Lupin— who had begun to insist that his former students call him “Remus,” something Draco found almost as difficult as calling Potter “Harry” — and Kingsley could often be found in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea and talking. Though they mostly discussed Order business, Draco had overheard them more than once recounting stories from their Hogwarts days. When they both laughed, the kitchen felt as full as if there were twelve people instead of only three. 

Despite Harry’s reclusivity, Draco felt he was running into him more than strictly made sense. They saw each other at meal times, of course, and often passed one another on the stairs. But Draco started bumping into him at odd times, like when he went looking for Kreacher in the cellars and came back up to find Harry loitering outside the cellar door, or when he went out on the heavily-warded third floor balcony for some air and found Harry already there, staring out across the enchanted view of rolling green hills. They always greeted each other, and sometimes had brief conversations. Draco found that it was becoming less and less unbearable to talk to Harry even during the daytime. It was beginning to feel like talking to a normal person, like Harry was just his awkward housemate with an aversion to combs.

Every time they spoke, Draco was tempted to bring up horcruxes again. The longer he spent working with Tonks, the harder it was to let her keep striving without a truly essential piece of knowledge. But something kept him from pushing Harry too hard. The seed had been planted; it needed to grow. If he pulled too hard, too soon, he’d yank it out by the roots.  _ Patience _ , he reminded himself in his father’s voice.

Lucius’s words often occurred to Draco at inopportune moments. His voice had always been strong in Draco’s mind, but now it was accompanied by a hollow pang of fear and a sick wave of shame. He desperately wanted his parents to be safe, and he hated himself for that. He lay awake nights imagining the horrible things that could be happening to them at You-Know-Who’s hands, and knowing they probably deserved it. He hadn’t dared to bring up the matter of their safety to Tonks but, to his surprise, she was the one to raise the topic.

“Draco,” she said the afternoon before they were meant to leave for the Burrow, as Draco was on his way out of her office. “I want to give you a quick update on your parents.”

He froze with his hand on the doorknob, seized by terror and hope in equal measure. “Yes?”

“We still can’t find any sign of them.”

Draco’s heart plummeted. He looked away from Tonks, blinking against the sting in his eyes. 

“But,” Tonks said. “We have reason to believe that You-Know-Who hasn’t found them either.”

There was a brief silence. “You don’t have to keep looking for them, you know,” Draco said. “They’re Death Eaters.”

“Dumbledore made a promise."

“I know you have limited manpower. I don’t want it wasted.”

Tonks was silent for a long time. Draco chanced a glance in her direction. She sat with her chin resting on her folded hands, elbows planted on her desk, a look of pure exhaustion on her face.

“I never knew Aunt Narcissa,” she said. “She wouldn’t see my mother after she married my dad.”

“I know,” Draco said.

“If there is any chance that Narcissa could change, could come to see things the way you do…”

“I know,” Draco said again, his voice coming out thick. “I— I hope there is a chance. But I don’t know that there is.”

Tonks nodded. “Well, we’ll keep looking as long as we’re able. Dumbledore would want to see his promises kept.”

Draco couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he gave a stiff nod. 

“I’ve seen enough families ripped apart,” Tonks said. “It would be nice to see some brought back together.”

He knew she didn’t just mean reuniting Draco with his parents. She meant reuniting two sisters who hadn’t seen each other in decades. 

“Well, we have come back together in some ways,” Draco said. “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

Tonks smiled. “I guess you’re right. I keep forgetting you’re my cousin. It’s so...weird.” 

“Thanks,” Draco said drily. 

“You know what I mean.”

Draco did know what she meant. His parents had spent his whole childhood instilling him with familial pride. He was the heir to the Blacks and the Malfoys, and there was nothing more important than that legacy, nothing more important than family— except when that family was deemed unacceptable. He hadn’t even known he  _ had _ a cousin Nymphadora until someone pointed it out to him during his first year at Hogwarts. 

“Have you decided what you’re wearing to the wedding?” Tonks asked, changing the subject. 

Draco sighed. “No. I haven’t really had enough time to plan.”

“You’ll have to take polyjuice, so keep that in mind. And no Slytherin colors.”

“I think everything I own is in Slytherin colors,” Draco said. 

Tonks laughed. “Well, we’ll find you something. Maybe Ron has something you can borrow— you two look about the same height.”

Draco had a sudden flashback to the Yule Ball, and shuddered. “I’ll transfigure something of mine.”

“I hope you’re better than I am at tailoring spells,” Tonks said. “Actually, scratch that, I hope you’re  _ worse _ than I am. Much funnier that way.”

Unlike Tonks, Draco did not have much of a sense of humor about his wardrobe. Luckily, he was also unlike her in that he had dedicated several years of study to the mastery of tailoring spells. That very evening he shut himself in his room, laid his second best set of dress robes on the bed, and got to work. The robes were a particularly lovely shade of emerald velvet, so Draco took care to use temporary charms only. He changed the body of the robes to black— suitably demure for a wedding at which he wanted to attract as little attention as possible— but couldn’t resist changing the lining and the inside of the trailing hood to sapphire, and adding a delicate silver trim. Hopefully any curious guests would assume he was an unusually fashionable Ravenclaw. 

“Draco— you’re going to look amazing.”

Ginny stood by the wardrobe where Draco had hung his dress robes to keep them from wrinkling overnight. He had apparated to the Burrow a few hours before, and immediately found himself in the midst of a nuptial frenzy unlike anything he had ever seen. Every room in the Burrow overflowed with guests, both English and French, and Mrs. Weasley presided over an army of helpers with a severity that would have made even You-Know-Who tremble. Draco was immediately set to work painting the fence with the Weasley twins, who spent the entire time making fun of him for casting an Impervious charm over his clothes. It was good-natured teasing, however, and Draco found he didn’t mind. When the fence was painted, he was directed to the kitchen, where Ginny and Gabrielle, Fleur’s sister, were chopping vegetables for that night’s dinner. He was able to speed up the process considerably with the use of magic, which the two girls were still legally barred from using outside of school, and he and Ginny managed to escape to Draco’s room before Mrs. Weasley caught them and assigned them another task. 

Draco’s room was, more accurately, Draco and Fred and George’s room. It was approximately the size of Malfoy Manor’s smallest pantry, and painted in dizzying red and gold stripes. Two twin beds occupied most of one side of the room, and a lumpy mattress took up the rest of the available floor space that wasn’t occupied by large boxes labelled “HAZARDOUS MAGICAL MATERIALS— DO NOT TOUCH.” When Draco first saw the room, he was reminded forcibly of a dozen taunts he had thrown at the Weasley children over the years. _I've heard you all share a bed. Is it true your Mum cooks over an open fire? _It made him sick to remember, especially when the twins gave him the "grand tour" of the house. _Our humble home is yours_, they said with mock solemnity.

“Please don’t mock me,” Draco said to Ginny, from where he lay on one of the twins’ beds. “I’ve had enough of that from your brothers today.”

“Surprisingly enough, I’m not mocking you,” Ginny said. “These robes are perfect for you.” 

“Well, I won’t be wearing my own face, will I?”

“Oh right, I forgot.” While they were painting the fence, Fred had informed Draco that he would be disguised as a Muggle from the nearby village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

“I do hope the Muggle I’ll be impersonating isn’t hideous,” Draco said to Ginny.

“Why? You trying to impress someone?” She shut the wardrobe and came to sit next to Draco on the bed.

“No,” Draco said quickly. “It’s a matter of pride.” When Ginny looked skeptical, he said, “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“Oh, a bridesmaid dress. It’s awful. I  _ wanted _ to wear trousers, but Phlegm nixed the idea.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for you, you know an expert tailor with absolutely no qualms about disappointing a bride on her wedding day.”

Ginny’s eyes widened, and she broke into a grin. “Draco, I think I might love you.”

By the time Draco went down to dinner that evening, he had transfigured the demure gold dress within an inch of its life. Ginny had practically squealed when she saw the final result, and thrown her arms around Draco. He had complained that she was messing up his hair, but secretly he enjoyed it. 

Dinner, it turned out, was also a bit of a celebration. 

“Nobody told me it was Harry’s birthday,” Draco hissed to Hermione as they stepped out onto the lawn and he saw the streamers in the trees, and the extra guests milling about. 

“Should we have?” Hermione said innocently. “Did you want to get him a gift?”

Draco sighed. “I already gave him a rather costly one, if you recall.”

“Right, because nothing says ‘happy birthday’ like a mangled horcrux.”

Truly, it didn’t matter if Draco remembered Harry’s birthday or not, because he hadn’t seen him all day. They had arrived at the Burrow separately as Harry still had yet to pass his apparation test, and had been assigned to different chores all day. They were seated at opposite ends of the table for the birthday dinner, and Draco spent most of the evening talking to Charlie, who seemed to regard him as some sort of fascinating specimen and asked him endless questions about Malfoy customs and Slytherin traditions. 

But Draco found himself watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. It was like watching a complete stranger. This Harry drank butterbeer until his cheeks were flushed, and laughed uproariously with Fred and George, and slung an arm around Ron’s shoulder, and got misty-eyed over the gifts that Remus and Hagrid and the Weasleys gave him. His flush deepened when Bill gave him a manly thump on the back. 

Draco had never really seen Harry among his people. Even at Grimmauld Place over the past few weeks, Harry had been tense and grieving. The Order headquarters was more war room than home. Here, at the Burrow, Harry was relaxed and open. He  _ glowed _ . Literally, in the golden light from the hovering paper lanterns, as well as figuratively. 

Seeing this, Draco’s heart ached. He couldn’t quite figure out why. Part of it was remorse, remembering all the different ways he had mocked Harry for being an orphan, and all the ways he had conspired to rid Harry of what little family he had managed to find. Part of it was envy— Draco could admit that now. But there was something else at the heart of the ache, something inchoate. 

At one point during the dinner, Draco caught himself staring at Harry and looked quickly away, only to meet Hermione’s eyes. She was watching him with a curious expression, and when she realized Draco was looking at her, she raised her eyebrows a fraction. Draco quickly became very absorbed in what Charlie was saying about North American Wyverns, and did his best not to look at Harry for the rest of the meal.

When the food was gone and the lanterns extinguished, Draco made his way back up the hill to the Burrow. He was looking forward to collapsing into bed, even if that bed  _ was _ a lumpy mattress on the floor next to the two most inebriated Weasleys. But he had barely made it through the front door when Mad-Eye Moody stepped out of the shadows and grabbed his arm. Draco jumped half a foot in the air. 

“Professor!” he blurted. Moody chuckled, his magical eye whirling in its socket. Draco wasn’t  _ scared _ of the old auror, per se, but he certainly wasn’t pleased to see him. Moody had always been a bit unsettling, and the fact that he had turned Draco into a ferret a few years before did nothing to help matters. 

“Come with me,” Moody said, dragging Draco into the parlor. “Got something for you.”

Draco had no choice but to follow, though he was the slightest bit worried that “something” might mean “a humiliating hex that I am going to perform on you in front of all of the Weasleys and half the Order.” 

But when they reached the parlor, Draco saw that Harry was there already, sitting on the sofa. He looked just as bemused as Draco felt, and Draco began to feel slightly more at ease. As far as he knew, the only time Moody had done anything to harm Harry was when he had been a Death Eater in disguise. (Of course, it was that same Death Eater who had transfigured Draco, but he still held a grudge against the actual man. It wasn’t as if Moody  _ wouldn’t _ have done it, if given the chance). 

“Sit,” Moody said, letting go of Draco’s arm, and Draco perched on the sofa beside Harry. They exchanged a confused look. “Now, as you know, you’ll both be in disguise at the wedding tomorrow,” Moody continued. “You,” he said, pointing his staff at Harry, “are You-Know-Who’s number one target. And you” — he pointed his staff at Draco, who flinched— “aren’t exactly in his good books either. Not to mention all the people on our side who wouldn’t be too happy to see you on the dance floor.”

“I know,” Draco said.

“Well, here you go.” Moody reached into his coat and produced two flasks of Polyjuice potion. Draco grimaced. They looked far too similar to the flask the fake Moody had used to maintain his disguise throughout their fourth year. “We don’t exactly have cauldrons of this stuff to spare, so you’ve only got a few hours worth each. Don’t take it until right before the wedding, and make sure you get out before it wears off. Whatever you do,  _ don’t be seen _ .”

“Don’t worry, professor,” Harry said earnestly. “We’ll remain vigilant.”

“Constantly,” Draco added.

Moody’s magical eye swung from Harry to Draco, examining them up and down for signs that they were mocking him.

“Yes,” Moody said grudgingly. He held out the flasks to Harry and Draco, who took them.

“Excuse me, sir,” Draco said. “But do you happen to know what I’ll look like?”

Moody looked at Draco with utter disdain. “Go to bed, Malfoy,” he barked.

Draco and Harry made their way up the stairs together, each clutching their flask of Polyjuice potion.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Harry said. “I’m a bit worried about what I’ll look like, too. I mean, it was Fred and George who got the hairs. And I’m supposed to be someone called Barney Weasley. Have you ever heard of a good-looking bloke named Barney?”

Draco snorted. “I think it would be exactly those two’s idea of a joke to turn me into an eighty year old man. With ear hair.”

“You might look like Kreacher.”

“Merlin, I was joking, but now I’m actually worried.”

They reached the landing and paused in the narrow corridor. Muffled strains of a raunchy drinking song issued from behind the closed door of Fred and George’s room, and Draco could hear high-pitched giggles coming from the room Ginny shared with Hermione and Gabrielle.

“They’re going to keep me up all night, aren’t they,” Draco said, glancing at his room. It was just an excuse to look away from Harry. This close, Harry’s presence was slightly overwhelming. He smelled of butterbeer and an unfamiliar cologne, and Draco had never noticed how broad his shoulders were before. 

“Bad luck, mate,” Harry said. “You’d be better off with me and Ron, but Mrs. Weasley’s stuck Charlie in with us.”

“Yes, bad luck,” Draco said, suddenly a bit breathless. At that moment, the door to Fred and George’s room banged open, and George stuck his head out.

“Oi,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Charlie’s passed out in your bed. You want to help us move him?”

“Can’t you levitate him?” Draco asked, reaching for his wand.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “Leave him. Draco can bunk with me and Ron.” 

“It’s really—” Draco began, but Harry waved him off.

“Come on, we’d probably end up breaking Charlie’s skull if we tried to get him up those stairs.”

George looked relieved. “Well, goodnight then.” He disappeared back into the room and slammed the door shut. The drinking song resumed, a bit louder than before. For a moment, Draco and Harry just stood in the hall. Draco cast about for something to look at that wasn’t Harry.

“Guess we’d better head up,” Harry said, moving towards the second set of stairs. “Ron’s probably passed out by now. Bet he took the best bed, too.”

Ron was indeed asleep in the best bed when they arrived, and Draco and Harry were left to choose between the trundle bed and the pile of couch cushions. After a quick whispered fight, Draco managed to persuade Harry that he would be perfectly happy on the cushions, and they climbed under their respective blankets and knocked off their wandlight. Draco lay awake for a long time, too nervous to change into his pajamas or even straighten out the sheet, which was crooked and left his left foot bare. He could hear Harry moving beside him, the rustle of blankets as he got comfortable, his slow, even breathing. Eventually, the Chosen One began to snore. 

_ How did I get here? _ Draco wondered, as Ron muttered something about house elf rights in his sleep.


	20. The Misadventures of Barney Weasley

The morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding dawned bright and warm. By nine in the morning, the last shreds of mist had burned away, and by 2:30 in the afternoon, the Burrow’s lawn was a dazzling spread of green. The wedding tent gleamed white in the sunlight, and the house bustled with activity.

“The guests are arriving in half an hour!” Mrs. Weasley screeched, jabbing a plate of canapes with her wand so the little bits of bread topped themselves with jam and pear slices. 

“’As anyone seen my ’airpiece?” Monsieur Delacour asked, breezing through the kitchen entirely bald. 

“Has anyone seen  _ Ginny _ ?” Bill retorted. “She was supposed to be dressed and downstairs an hour ago.”

“Ginny might be making a late appearance,” Draco said from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, calmly eating a pear. “She’s having trouble with her...erm, hair.”

Harry thought he detected the faintest quirk of a smile on Draco’s lips, and he wondered what his ex-girlfriend and ex-nemesis were planning. Nothing good, by the sound of it. Harry hid his grin behind his glass of juice. Of course Draco was the only person not about to lose his head with stress. He was already dressed in a velvet robe, his hair slicked back but for a loose curl that fell across his forehead. Why had he bothered styling his hair at all if he was only going to be taking Polyjuice Potion in half an hour?

A few minutes later, Mrs. Weasley began herding everyone outside, and Harry headed to the bathroom to take his potion. He didn’t fancy everyone watching him transform. The Polyjuice burned going down, but when Harry finally opened his eyes, he was rather pleased with the results. “Barney Weasley” was a pleasant-looking, round-faced young man with curly red hair. The only problem was, he didn’t exactly fit into Harry’s dress robes.

“Harry, dear, are you almost ready?” Mrs. Weasley called from outside the bathroom.

“Yes,” Harry said, opening the door and stepping out. Mrs. Weasley was dressed in amethyst robes that sparkled when she moved. 

“Oh, you look so handsome,” she cooed, looking Harry up and down. “Not as nice as if you were yourself, of course. But I’m sure the young witches won’t be turning up their noses.”

Harry squirmed. “Er, thanks.” He wasn’t sure if Mrs. Weasley was aware that he had dated her daughter, but either way, he definitely didn’t want to discuss his dating prospects with her.

Luckily, Mrs. Weasley was in a hurry, and she shooed him outside with everyone else. Fred and George were down at the far end of the yard, by the newly-painted fence, welcoming the guests who had apparated and arrived by portkey. Ron stood awkwardly by the house, wearing a halfway decent set of robes that Fred and George had graciously bought for him, and a stranger stood beside him, wearing Draco’s robe. 

Except, of course, it  _ was _ Draco. As it turned out, his fears about Fred and George had been unfounded. He had transformed into a perfectly normal-looking young man with short brown hair and a forgettable face. He was quite a bit shorter than he normally was, but his robes still seemed to fit him perfectly. 

Harry wandered over to the two of them. When Ron caught sight of him, he straightened and contorted his face into a horrible grin.

“Hello,” he said stiffly. “May I show you to your— wait. Harry?”

“It’s Barney,” Harry said, struggling not to laugh. “And who are you meant to be?” he asked Draco.

“I am Linus Flenderbarn,” Draco said in a voice that was unmistakably his own. “I am a Ravenclaw with very few friends. Ronald knows me from Hogwarts and he invited me to this wedding out of pity.”

“Great backstory,” Harry said, not bothering to hide his grin. “Very convincing.”

“I didn’t come up with it,” Draco said stiffly. “You can thank Ginny for that particular bit of creative genius.”

“Speaking of,” Harry said. “Where is Ginny?”

“She’ll be down...later,” Draco said, not meeting Harry’s eye. What on Earth were they planning? Before Harry could pry any further, Draco said,

“Do your robes need letting out?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your robes. They don’t seem to fit Barney.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Harry said, tugging at his sleeve. It didn’t quite reach his wrist, and it was painfully tight under his arms. “Not much I can do about it now, though.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Honestly.” He pulled his wand from his sleeve and began to mutter a series of incantations, moving his want down the length of Harry’s body. Almost instantly the pinch of the fabric eased, and Harry looked down to see that the robes had expanded around his stomach and arms, and the sleeves now reached almost to his fingers.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Er, thanks.”

Before Draco had a chance to respond, the first wave of guests arrived, and he, Ron, and Harry were pulled away to show everyone to their seats.

The lead-up to the ceremony was a bit of a blur. Luna arrived, dressed all in yellow, and introduced Harry to her peculiar father. She hugged Draco tightly, and proclaimed his new face "mysterious." Hermione came outside in a floaty lilac dress, and Ron briefly lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Viktor Krum interrupted them to pay Hermione a compliment that Ron clearly resented. Mr. Weasley rushed back and forth, asking everyone he encountered whether they had seen Ginny anywhere, while Gabrielle, Fleur’s sister, cried because she didn’t want to have to be a bridesmaid by herself. 

But eventually, everyone found their seats and the roar and bustle of the guests faded to gentle buzz. Harry was just heading to his seat when someone cried, “Look!”

He turned back to the house and saw Ginny striding down the lawn towards the tent, wearing something that most certainly was  _ not _ her bridesmaid dress.

“What is _that_ ?” Fleur cried from outside the tent, where she was waiting to walk down the aisle. Ginny wore flowy gold pants that buttoned just below her ribs, the cuffs brushing her platform heels. Her crop top was black lace, and her fiery hair fell loose around her shoulders. Harry hadn’t thought about Ginny with desire in a few weeks, but even he felt a flutter in his stomach as he watched her approach Gabrielle, who squealed with delight. The music swelled, and the bridesmaids took to the aisle. Ginny beamed. She rarely smiled like that outside of winning Quidditch matches.

Harry cast about the tent until he caught sight of Draco, in the form of Linus Flenderbarn, watching Ginny with a smug little smile. When Harry caught his eye, he adopted an expression of exaggerated innocence. Beside him, Luna was gaping at Ginny like she had never seen her before.

The moment the wedding ceremony ended, a dance floor spread like liquid across the tent, and the band transfigured their cellos and harps into drums and an electric guitar. Couples poured out onto the dance floor. Harry saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bopping to a cover of a Weird Sisters song, and Tonks, wearing a blue jumpsuit and cape to match her hair, dancing with a blonde witch that Harry vaguely recognized from the Order. Ron pulled Hermione out on the floor, executing moves that made Harry strongly suspect he had asked Bill for help. Off the dance floor, Remus and Kingsley sat at a table with their heads bent close together, laughing, faces soft in the lamplight.

“I was wondering when they’d do a slow dance,” Draco said, plopping down into the empty chair beside Harry. The music had just shifted to something dreamy and mellow. Harry had seen Draco dancing with Ginny and Luna, all three of them reckless and laughing, and when he looked for the two girls on the dance floor now, he saw that they had drawn close together. Ginny had her hands on Luna’s waist, and Luna was staring up at her with wide, shining eyes. In the middle of the dance floor, Fleur and Bill swayed together. Bill’s dress robes fit him perfectly, and the attached cloak, trimmed in gold, gave him an almost regal appearance.

“Are you checking Fleur out?” Draco asked incredulously. Harry jerked his eyes away from the dance floor.

“What? No!”

“Bill, then?”

“I wasn’t...I was just thinking that Bill’s robes are, er, nice.” Harry hoped desperately that the warmth in his cheeks wasn’t visible.

“Oh really?” Draco cocked his head to one side, examining Harry thoughtfully. “You think Bill’s fit, then?”

“I— what?”

“He’s a good-looking man.”

“I mean, I guess.” Harry wished Draco would stop looking at him like that. How did he manage to look so absolutely Draco-ish while wearing someone else’s face?

“ _ I  _ wouldn’t say no to him. Hypothetically, of course. I know he’s married— I already promised Ginny I wouldn’t flirt with him.”

Harry laughed. “Come on.”

“I’m serious,” Draco said, and two pink dots appeared on his cheeks. “She made me swear.”

Harry swallowed. “Well, good for her then.” Was Draco trying to tell him that he was attracted to Bill Weasley? Why would he want Harry to have this information? Unless what he really wanted Harry to know was not that he was attracted to this one particular man, but that he was attracted to men in general. Was Harry meant to respond to this as a coming out? “I— er, thank you for telling me.”

Draco snorted. “Potter. You’re adorable.”

His tone was derisive, but Harry blushed all the same. “I can understand why you fancy him,” he said, trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters. “I always thought Bill was cool.”

“You did, did you?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“Does your stomach get all fluttery every time he talks to you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. If his stomach ever  _ did _ flutter when he talked to Bill, it was nerves. “Don’t be weird. He’s Ron’s brother.”

“And Ginny isn’t Ron’s sister?”

“That’s different!” Harry sputtered.

“Harry, are you saying you  _ are _ attracted to him?”

“No!” For the first time in a while, Harry thought he would very much like to punch Draco in the face. He was twisting Harry’s words,  _ trying _ to get him all tangled up. Harry was still trying to muster an argument in his defense that wouldn’t sound incredibly defensive when the slow song ended, and Ron and Hermione, who had been dancing together, drifted back to their table. Hermione was grinning, her face framed by a few delicate curls that had come loose from the complicated knot she had put her hair into, and Ron’s face was flushed.

“Harry,” he said, slightly too loudly. “Aren’t you going to dance?”

“My name is Barney,” Harry reminded him. “And I don’t like dancing. Since when do  _ you _ like dancing?”

Ron shrugged, dropping into the seat next to Draco. “Since I stopped being fourteen, mate.”

“You really should dance,” Hermione said, taking the seat beside Ron. “Both of you. This is a great song!”

The band’s lead singer was now jumping up and down as he sang “Talk Mermish to Me” with great gusto. Ginny and Luna had moved their way to the center of the dance floor, their faces bright with laughter as they waved their hands over their heads and writhed in a dance that resembled nothing so much as the Whomping Willow. 

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Draco said, getting to his feet. “Harry?”

He extended his hand, and Harry stared at it. “I’m not dancing,” he said.

“Come dance with me, or I’ll tell everyone about your embarrassing crush.”

Harry made an incoherent noise of protest.

“What crush?” Hermione cried, leaning forward. Ron looked vaguely nauseous.

“He’s lying,” Harry growled, but he got to his feet. “You’re a lying, awful git, you know that?”

Draco grabbed his hand. “And I’m excited to see how terrible a dancer you are.”


	21. Decisions

**Draco**

Draco wasn’t sure what motivated him to do it. It probably had something to do with the three glasses of champagne, and the gleeful energy that coursed through his body after dancing with Ginny and Luna. Those two danced with such utter abandon that Draco lost himself, forgot who he was and how he was supposed to act. Wearing someone else’s face, he danced like he had never danced before. It made him giddy. Overconfident.

When he saw the way Harry was watching Bill Weasley (and he knew it was Bill that Harry was looking at, he could just tell), he couldn’t resist teasing him. Prodding him. Could Harry Potter really be queer? It felt so good to get a rise out of him, to see the color blooming in his cheeks, to watch him grow more and more flustered. He had always liked getting a rise out of Potter, but it was so much better now that he didn’t actually want to hurt him.

And then Hermione had encouraged them to dance and...well, Draco couldn’t help himself. He wanted to dance again, and he wanted to dance with Harry. He wanted to lure Harry into the magic of the dance floor and free the glowing version of him that Draco had glimpsed the night before, at the birthday celebration— even if he looked like a red-headed Muggle.

At first, Harry simply stood and glowered while Draco danced around him. 

“You have to actually  _ move _ ,” Draco said. “Like this.” He shimmied his hips and bounced along with the music. Harry gave a sort of twitch that might have been an attempt at dancing and Draco, seized with an absolute disregard for common sense, grabbed Harry’s shoulders and used his hands to move them, forcing Harry’s body to fall into the rhythm of the song.

Harry glared at Draco, but Draco thought he saw his mouth twitch ever so slightly.

“See,” Draco said, letting go of Harry’s shoulders. “It’s not so bad.” He did a little twirl that was meant to move him farther onto the dance floor, but lost his balance and nearly spun right into Harry. 

“Are you drunk?” Harry said, laughing as he grabbed Draco by the shoulders and set him upright. Draco regained his footing and looked up into Harry’s bright green eyes, his crooked smile, just inches from Draco’s own burning face.

Wait. Harry’s eyes were green.

“Er, Barney,” he said. “I think your potion’s wearing off.”

Harry backed up at once, reaching into the pocket of his robes for the flask. He shook it next to his ear, and frowned.

“Shit. I’m out.”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to get out of dancing?”

“No, I’m serious,” Harry said. “Also, did Linus’s hair always have blonde tips?”

Draco’s hand flew to the top of his head. “Fuck. And I already drank the last of mine, too.”

“Come on,” Harry said. He stuffed the flask back into his pocket and made a beeline for the stand of trees at the far end of the Burrow’s lawn. Draco followed, moving out of the lantern light that bathed the wedding party and away from the blaring intensity of the music. When they reached the trees, Harry led him just under their cover to the base of an old pine tree with gnarled roots. From there, Draco could still see the shining tent and the bright colors of all the well-dressed people moving and dancing beneath it. The music was faint, like something half-remembered, and a sobering stillness came over Draco. He felt as if he were watching life happen from afar, as if he was no longer quite a part of it. 

**Harry**

Harry sat down among the roots of the tree, leaning back against its rough bark. He looked down at his hands, which had regained their golden brown tone. It was a relief to be back in his own body again, even if his tailored robes now hung loose around his frame. Draco conjured a handkerchief and laid it over the piled needles before he sat down beside Harry. He was himself again— pale and pointy, his overgrown blonde hair spilling into his face.

“Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Harry said softly. There was no reason to be quiet-- no one would be able to hear them over the noise from the wedding-- but somehow it felt wrong to speak in a normal voice.

“Was it?” Draco whispered. “You didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself very much.”

Harry turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Draco shrugged. “You sat by yourself most of the time. You didn’t want to dance.”

“I told you, I don’t like dancing.” Harry shook his head. “It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying myself. I liked watching. I liked seeing everyone so happy.”

“But you didn’t want to be a part of it?”

“I don’t feel like I  _ am _ a part of it,” Harry said. The words surprised him coming out of his mouth.

“Of course you are,” Draco said. “Everyone there loves you. Well, everyone who knows you aren’t Barney Weasley, that is.”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. It’s different, isn’t it? In some way, they could walk away any time they want. They’re not going to, cause they’re brave and wonderful and...everything. But I can’t walk away, even if I wanted to. It makes me feel...far away.”

“Why are you the only one who can’t walk away?” Draco asked. “Because you’re the Chosen One?”

“Will I sound like a prat if I say yes?”

“You usually sound like a prat anyway, I wouldn’t worry.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You know, I never in a million years would have thought I’d be sitting here talking to you. Like this.”

“And I never thought I’d see Ginny Weasley snog Luna Lovegood, but here we are.”

“What?”

Harry spun to look at the wedding tent as a few scattered cheers rose above the music. He could just make out a golden, red-haired shape wrapping herself around a bright yellow one. He waited for the pain to come, the wave of shock or jealousy. The couple broke apart and returned to dancing, and Harry kept waiting. Eventually, he realized it wasn’t coming. All he felt was a warm glow in the pit of his stomach, tinged with sadness. 

“Are you okay?” Draco said. The words sounded a bit stiff coming from him, but he seemed to mean them.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I actually am.”

“You know, you don’t have to do everything alone,” Draco said. “I’d bet good money there was no line in that prophecy that said ‘and he shall never ask anyone for help, ever.’”

Harry looked back down at his hands. He had known Draco would bring this up again: yet another argument in which Harry knew he was absolutely right, but couldn’t quite string together the words to convince anyone else of it. He just  _ knew _ . Instead, he said,

“Dumbledore understood.” He took a deep breath, running his hands over his face as the physical weight of Dumbledore being gone settled over him again. “He knew this was something I needed to do on my own. That it was  _ my _ responsibility. He prepared me for it.”

_ Did he? _ said a small voice in the back of Harry’s mind.  _ Did he prepare you? _

“You’re telling me that a  _ one hundred year old man _ who happened to also be one of the  _ strongest wizards of all time _ understood that a sixteen year old who can’t even spell his own clothes to fit him was meant to defeat the Dark Lord all on his own?”

“I’m seventeen,” Harry said. He immediately realized how childish it sounded. “And it’s not about magical ability, or— or experience. It’s about who I am, and who he is. He chose me. He singled me out and decided I was his downfall. That’s why he tried to kill me. And that’s why I’m going to kill him.”

Harry didn’t realize how loud his voice had gotten until he stopped speaking, and the silence rang after his words. 

“I never said you don’t get to be the one to kill him,” Draco said softly. “I just think it’s okay to ask for some help to get there.”

Harry turned to look at Draco. The distant light from the wedding lanterns cast his face in gold and blue, igniting his gray eyes. He gazed back at Harry with unbridled intensity, his chin tilted up, his delicately shaped lips pressed together in defiance. 

Back at the tent, someone shrieked with delight. Harry knew it was time to drop Draco’s gaze, to say something or even just to look away, but he couldn’t. Then another scream rose from the wedding guests, and another. The music stopped abruptly, and all the hairs on Harry’s arms stood on end.

He leapt to his feet, and Draco wasn’t far behind. They exchanged one last look— this one laden with fear— and raced back to the tent.

They arrived just in time to see an unfamiliar Patronus vanish.

“What is it?” Harry gasped, grabbing Hermione’s arm. “What’s happened?”

She turned to Harry with terror in her eyes. “The Ministry’s fallen,” she said. “Harry, we have to run.  _ Now _ .”

The crowd that had gathered around the Patronus erupted into chaos. Guests screamed and began running for the front gate. People pushed and shoved, calling for their friends and loved ones.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry cried.

“I don’t know, he went to get drinks before...I’m all ready, I’ve packed, we can go now, we just need to—”

Spears of light fizzled across the night sky as the wards that kept the Burrow safe began to fall. People began disapparating where they stood, loud cracks punctuating the cries of the throng. Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand and began to push his way towards where he thought the bar had been, searching for any sign of red hair. He saw Bill and Fleur clinging to each other as they ran for the house, then Monsieur Delacour scooping Gabrielle into his arms and disapparating.  _ Please let the Weasleys be okay _ , he thought.  _ Please don’t let them die because they brought me here _ .

A hand grabbed Harry’s arm and he swung around, wand raised— only to stop when he realized who it was.

“Draco,” he gasped. “What are you doing? We have to get out of here.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Draco cried. “Ron can apparate. He’ll get out of here on his own. Death Eaters are coming. You have to get back to Grimmauld Place!”

Harry glanced back at Hermione, who was straining against his grip on her hand, shouting for Ron in the chaos, then looked at Draco.

“We’re not going back to Grimmauld Place.”

Confusion flickered across Draco’s face. It was quickly replaced by fury. “You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? To disappear as soon as you get the chance, and go after the horcruxes alone?” 

“Ron!” Hermione cried. Harry turned to see Ron rushing towards them, wand out. Hermione broke free of Harry and rushed to meet him.

“You can’t do this,” Draco cried. 

“I have to!” Harry shook off Draco’s grip, but Draco lunged forward, grabbing Harry by the shoulders. 

“You could end this war.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?”

A blood-curdling shriek erupted in the night, and both Harry and Draco whirled to see a woman falling in a flash of red light. A hooded figure stood over her, wand raised, skeletal mask illuminated by firelight. A few of the enchanted lanterns had crashed to the ground, and flames licked at the tent. 

“Let me go,” Harry said. He knew he could shake Draco off if he tried, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to move. Draco’s face was contorted with fury, his eyes bright and pleading. For a moment it seemed to Harry like it wasn’t fury at all, but anguish.

“Harry!” Hermione cried. She slammed into him, Ron in tow, and Harry knew she was preparing to apparate. He had no idea where she would take them, but he knew it wouldn’t be Grimmauld Place. 

He made his decision in an instant. Before Hermione could twist them into darkness, he grabbed Draco’s forearm, seized Hermione’s wrist with his other hand, and thought as hard as he could of a dingy London street, bathed in lamplight.


	22. Loyalties

**Draco**

A Patronus arrived only moments after Draco, Harry, Hermione, and Ron stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place. The shimmering lynx materialized at their feet in the front hallway, and Ron let out a strangled cry. But when it opened its mouth, it spoke with Remus’s voice.

“We’re securing the Burrow. So far, no one is hurt. Keep Harry safe. Don’t let him return.”

“I thought Lupin’s Patronus was a wolf,” Ron said, kicking the spot where it had just vanished. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“Patronuses change,” Hermione said, sounding dazed. “Come on, let’s get changed.”

“Why can’t I go back?” Harry demanded. He didn’t move, still staring at the spot where the Patronus had stood. “We could help the rest of the guests. Ron, your family—”

“You’ll just put everyone in more danger,” Hermione said with exasperation. “The only reason the Death Eaters came is because they knew you would be there. The Burrow was registered with the Ministry as a protected location for you. Grimmauld Place is the only safehouse the Ministry didn’t know about.”

“Remus is there,” Draco said. “So’s Kingsley, and Tonks. They can handle a few Death Eaters.”

“Maybe he can’t go back,” Ron said. “But I can.” He made a move like he was going to head right back out the front door, but Hermione put a hand out to stop him.

“Don’t be silly, Ron. Remus said they have things under control. There’s nothing you can do.”

“That’s my family back there!”

“Actually,” Draco said, his stomach sinking. “I think Ron might be right.”

Three heads swivelled in Draco’s direction. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The Death Eaters are looking for Harry. He’s not there, and your family can plausibly deny that he ever was. They were just having a wedding. But if Ron’s missing, it’s going to look a lot more suspicious. He’s a known friend of Harry’s. They’re going to think Harry  _ was _ there, and that Ron left with him.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. Hermione slowly lowered her hand, her shoulders slumping. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” Ron said. “I’ll be alright. Like you said, they have everything under control. I’ll just pretend I was there the whole time and act like I don’t know anything.”

“I could come too,” Hermione said weakly.

“Come on, you’re Muggle born. I told you, I’ll be alright.”

Their eyes met, and something palpable and electric passed between them. Draco became very interested in the faded design of the carpet.

“Ron, you can’t,” Harry said. “We— your family can lie, they can say you’ve gone to see your aunt or something.”

Ron shook his head. “Come on,” he said, a half-smile on his face. “Gotta let me be the hero sometime, right?” He pulled Harry in for a hug, thumping him on the back. When they pulled away, Harry looked bereft. Ron hesitated for another moment, gave a tight little nod, then turned and opened the front door. Hermione made a quick movement like she wanted to restrain him, keep him from going, but she held herself back. Ron stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Hermione let out a long, shaky breath.

“Come on,” Draco said after a moment. “We really should get changed.” 

The three of them went to their separate rooms, then met downstairs again. Draco arrived last, and when he reached the corridor outside the drawing room, he heard Harry and Hermione arguing.

“...very reckless,” Hermione hissed.

“I know,” Harry said. “I know, I just— I started thinking...”

There was a long pause. “You mean you want to…?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Harry sighed.

Draco chose that moment to loudly rattle the doorknob and enter the room. Both Harry and Hermione jumped guiltily, and Hermione stuck her nose in the book that had been lying open on her lap. Draco had to swallow a smirk. Both Gryffindors were horribly incompetent liars.

When Draco had realized that Harry, Ron, and Hermione planned to abscond from the wedding without so much as a cursory warning, he had felt, briefly, as if the ground had fallen away beneath him. As the wards tumbled like a falling sky and Death Eaters appeared among them, threatening to recognize Draco at any moment, all Draco could focus on was the fact that Harry was leaving. It felt like a betrayal.

But then he was sucked into the darkness of apparation, nearly splinched in the four-way sidealong, and found himself standing in a puddle outside Grimmauld Place. And while Hermione and Ron cursed and shouted at Harry, and Hermione attempted to heal Ron’s splinched fingernails, Draco simply stood and stared at the house, unexpected lightness spreading through him. Harry had taken them to Grimmauld Place. Harry wasn’t going to abandon the Order. Harry wasn’t going to abandon  _ Draco _ .

Now, sitting across from Harry, who was curled in a leather armchair and staring blankly at the carpet, Draco pondered how much and how quickly everything had changed. Being in Harry’s presence was no longer like braving a blasting, icy wind. Draco no longer wanted to avoid him; he actively sought him out. The thought stirred something uneasy in the pit of Draco’s stomach, but he refused to pay much attention to it. He had gained Harry’s trust— that was what mattered. That was why it felt so good, now, to be near him.

“I hope Luna made it out,” Hermione said suddenly, letting her book fall to her lap. “Xenophilius has been publishing some anti-Death Eater things in the Quibbler for a while now. They haven’t retaliated yet, but if they caught her at that wedding…” she trailed off.

Draco felt a surge of guilt. He was gloating to himself because Potter listened to him while his friends were in danger. At the mention of Luna, he thought of her and Ginny dancing that night, and of the Death Eaters tearing through the crowd, throwing their spells indiscriminately at fleeing bodies. Something twisted painfully in his chest. 

“I’m sure we’ll have more information soon,” Draco said. “Once the Burrow is secure, Tonks is definitely going to call a strategy meeting.”

“If they make it out,” Harry said dully. He was still staring at the floor, his face shadowed. 

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply. “Remus said—”

“I know what he said!” Harry cried. “I heard the damn Patronus. But that was earlier. We don’t know what’s happened. Don’t you get it?  _ There is no more Ministry _ . Nobody’s safe. So they started at the Burrow. But who’s next? What about Andromeda? Or— you said it yourself. What about Luna?”

“Harry—” Hermione began tentatively.

“It’s my fault!” Harry shouted. “I shouldn’t have been there. I should have left a long time ago, and now I let  _ you _ —” he rounded on Draco— “talk me into coming back here, when my friends are in danger!”

He stopped, breathing heavily. Draco was silent for a moment, absorbing the wave of seething pain and anger. He had never seen Harry lose control like that. Hermione looked caught between fear and pity.

“We get it, you’re the Chosen One,” Draco said, leaning back in his chair. “You have a target on your back. But if you think every one of these people wouldn’t be in danger anyway, you’re fooling yourself. Voldemort was always going to come back to power, whether he ‘chose’ you or not. The Weasleys have always been blood traitors. The Lovegoods have always been anti-Ministry, and the Quibbler was a resistance magazine in the last war, too. You have to stop acting like this all begins and ends with you.”

Harry stared at Draco, open-mouthed. He still held himself like he wanted to launch into another angry tirade, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. Draco seized the opportunity.

“I know you’ve been through hell,” he said, leaning forward, meeting Harry’s gaze and holding it. “But this war would be happening with or without you. Did you ever think you might be able to end this war sooner, and save lives, if you just let someone help you? You’re surrounded by powerful witches and wizards. Tonks, for one. Mad-Eye. Kingsley Shacklebolt, for Merlin’s sake. Did it ever occur to you that they might be able to contribute something to finding and destroying those horcruxes?”

A heavy silence fell over the room when Draco stopped speaking. Harry still gaped at him, the color high in his cheeks. 

“I think he’s right, you know,” Hermione said in a small voice. Harry’s head jerked and he turned to stare at her. But before he could speak, a loud crash sounded in the hall. Draco, Harry, and Hermione exchanged a look, and all three of them got to their feet, drawing their wands. Hermione, who was closest to the door, moved to it and peered out in the hall. Draco’s heart thudded in his chest as he imagined Death Eaters torturing Grimmauld Place’s location out of one of the Weasleys, banging down the door, cackling as they spilled into the hall…

“Tonks!” Hermione cried, throwing open the door and running into the hall. Harry bolted after her, stowing his wand, and Draco followed, suddenly lightheaded. He stepped out just in time to see Hermione throw her arms around a fiery-haired Nymphadora. “Thank Merlin you’re okay.”

“I’m just glad you three made it out,” Tonks said, pulling Harry into a one-armed hug when Hermione released her. Then, she held out her arm to Draco. He accepted the hug awkwardly, patting Tonks a bit on the back, and backed away as quickly as he could. To Hermione, Tonks said, “Ron made it back. He apparated into the garden and pretended he’d been hiding there the whole time.”

Hermione made a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh, and pulled Tonks back in for another hug. Over Hermione’s shoulder, Tonks said,

“They’ve put the Weasleys under house arrest. We managed to get all the guests out safely, and no other Order members were captured. They couldn’t find any proof that the Weasleys were harboring fugitives, so they’re okay for now.”

Hermione let Tonks go for a second time and stepped back, wiping her cheeks. Harry nodded, then pressed his palms to his eyes as if trying to stuff everything back inside him. Draco had the sudden urge to put an arm around Harry’s shoulders, to give him something to lean into. 

“Are we going to strategize?” Harry asked, dropping his hands and regaining his composure. 

“Yes,” Tonks said. “I told everyone to meet me here as soon as they can. We’ll be short the Weasleys, but we’re trying to find a safe way to communicate with them.”

Moments after she spoke, Draco heard the front door open. There were footsteps, and a very weary-looking Kingsley appeared on the stairs, still dressed in his elegant blue dress robes. 

“Any news?” Tonks said at once, rushing to greet him at the bottom of the stairs. 

Kingsley shook his head. “No new injuries. They’re keeping the Burrow under very close watch, so I don’t think there’s any way we can communicate with them without putting them at risk.” He hugged Tonks briefly, then turned to Harry and Hermione. “Can I speak to you two alone for a moment?”

Draco saw Harry and Hermione exchange a glance, but they followed Kingsley into the drawing room without comment. Draco watched them go, his heart sinking. What was it that couldn’t be said in front of him and Tonks? Or was it just him that Kingsley didn’t want to speak in front of?

“Don’t worry about it,” Tonks said. “He meant to do this at the wedding. I think it’s Ministry business.”

“There is no Ministry,” Draco said. He felt Tonks’s gaze on him and turned to see her watching him with heavy eyes.

“No,” she said finally. “I guess not.”

**Harry**

The rest of the Order arrived in fits and starts. They were much more furtive than usual, apparating into nearby alleys and sneaking to Grimmauld Place. Some even came in disguise. They greeted each other with long, solemn hugs and quiet tears of relief. Harry, who had felt as though the wedding was Ground Zero of the attack, remembered suddenly that several Order members had been spies within the Ministry, or stationed nearby. Some of them had seen the Death Eaters arrive, had watched the Imperiused and disloyal Ministry officials turn, had heard Scrimgeour die. They wouldn’t have been able to fight back— they couldn’t risk giving themselves up as spies.

Tonks had said that everyone made it safely away from the wedding. But she hadn’t said anything about the rest of the Order. Harry scanned the faces gathered in the kitchen, searching for those he recognized, trying to tell if anyone was missing. He saw Remus and Kingsley, Emmeline Vance, and a disgruntled looking Mundungus Fletcher. Snape lurked in a back corner, and Professor McGonagall sat at the long table a few chairs down from Harry, whispering with the blonde witch Harry had seen dancing with Tonks at the wedding. But for all the people he knew, Harry couldn’t be sure that everyone was there. It bothered him that he couldn’t tell. He knew many Order members, but there were many more he didn’t know very well at all. They were putting their lives on the line for him— well, for everyone— and he couldn’t even remember their faces.

Draco’s words from earlier echoed in his head.  _ You have to stop acting like this all begins and ends with you.  _ Every cell in Harry’s body rebelled against Draco’s accusations. Harry wasn’t being self-centered— he was trying desperately to be selfless, and failing. What did Draco know of anything? Dumbledore had shown Harry how things were. He had told Harry what the prophecy contained, and what it meant. He had guided Harry to his destiny. 

_ He also knew he was dying and didn’t tell you _ , said a voice in the back of Harry’s mind. If Harry was certain of anything, it was that Dumbledore knew more about Voldemort and horcruxes and Harry’s destiny than he had shared with Harry. Why, if he knew he would die within the year, if he suspected he might die the night they went to recover the locket, hadn’t he shared more?

Harry reached into his pocket to touch the fake locket, but his hand brushed something cold and smooth instead. Of course— he was still wearing his dress robes, and the only thing in this pocket was what Kingsley had given him just a half hour before. One last hint from Dumbledore, another mystery.

“Can I have your attention,” Tonks said, standing up at the head of the table, and the room fell silent. She had changed out of her wedding clothes and now looked imposing in a trenchcoat that fell past her knees. “As everyone in this room is already aware, Scrimgeour is dead. Thicknesse has been declared Minister, and we have known for months that he is You-Know-Who’s puppet. For all intents and purposes, You-Know-Who controls the government.” Tonks paused, staring grimly out at the assembled Order. “We knew this moment was coming, but we thought we had a little more time. Based on the timing and the suspicions of our informants, we have to assume that You-Know-Who found out about Dumbledore’s death, and chose to attack during our time of weakness. But he got one thing wrong. This is not our time of weakness.” Her voice rose as she spoke, gaining a powerful resonance that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end. “We have been preparing for this moment for weeks, and because of that, none of us lost our lives today. Our numbers are strong, and we have never been more dedicated to the battle before us.”

“Hear hear,” Mad-Eye Moody grunted, prompting a small smattering of applause. 

“I’m not saying this is going to be easy,” Tonks went on, leaning forward to lay her palms flat on the table. “Those of you who fought this same evil sixteen years ago know that we have an uphill battle ahead of us. Not all of us are going to make it through alive. Our enemy is powerful, and he strikes such fear into the hearts of wizards and witches that we don’t even say his name out loud. Very few are brave enough to stand against him.” Tonks paused, eyes roving over her audience. The silence in the room was so complete Harry could have heard a pin drop. “A good many of those brave people are sitting right here,” Tonks said, her voice softer. “I have complete faith that because we are here, because we are willing and ready to fight, we will live to see the day that the suffering Voldemort brings to our world ends.” A murmur arose when Tonks spoke Voldemort’s name. It hit Harry square in the chest. Someone else, someone other than himself and Dumbledore, had spoken Voldemort’s name. Tonks’s eyes blazed. “That’s right,” Tonks said. “We will speak his name. Because he is not an unfathomable evil, but a cruel man. And we will defeat him.”

For a moment, silence reigned in the kitchen. Then, the Order erupted in cheers. Emmeline stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over, and clapped so hard her hat fell off her head. The blonde witch next to McGonagall whistled, and Moody banged his staff on the flagstones. Swept up in the furor of emotion Harry stood too, clapping so hard his palms stung. He heard Hermione sniff behind him, and when he glanced across the table he saw Draco standing silently, watching Tonks with tears glittering in his eyes. The sight made Harry’s throat suddenly tight.

Everything was different now. Dumbledore was dead. The man who stood beside his hospital bed when he was eleven years old and sampled his Every Flavor Beans and called him brave was gone. Harry had needed Dumbledore so desperately back then, and he still needed him now. But it wasn't just that the man he had relied upon was dead; it was that Harry wasn't certain he had ever existed.

Whatever Dumbledore had been trying to build, whatever destiny he had been leading Harry towards, it was dust in the ground. Harry would never know what it had been. Now, all that Harry had to trust in were the people still around him, the brave and loyal people in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Tonks and Remus and Kingsley. Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle. Hermione, and every Weasley who couldn’t be there in that moment. Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape.

It took a long time for the applause to die down, but when it did, Tonks asked everyone for updates. Harry almost stood up to leave before he remembered that he was now seventeen. He was officially part of the Order.

“I have something to say,” Professor McGonagall said, getting to her feet. Tonks ceded the floor with a nod. “Rufus Scrimgeour appointed me headmistress of Hogwarts after Dumbledore’s passing. I consider it highly unlikely that this Pius Thicknesse will allow me to continue in that role. I am concerned for the safety of the children. We must find a way to protect them, no matter who is chosen in my stead.”

“I believe I may be able to assist in that matter,” said a drawling voice from the back of the room. Harry knew who it was before he turned to look. Snape took a half step forward and bowed slightly to Professor McGonagall. “The Dark Lord has informed me that he wishes me to take the role of headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“That’s good news and bad news,” Tonks said, looking between McGonagall and Snape. “You would be well placed to keep the students safe, but how can you do that without attracting suspicion?”

Snape inclined his head. “Precisely my dilemma. I must remain threatening to the students, especially those not aligned with the Death Eaters, if I am to stay in the Dark Lord’s good graces.”

Harry turned to catch Ron’s eye, wanting to whisper that Snape shouldn’t have a hard time being threatening, before remembering that Ron wasn’t there. His stomach twisted.

“We’ll work out the details later,” Tonks said. “Thank you for that information, Severus, and for raising the issue, Minerva.”

McGonagall sat, and Snape sank back into the shadows. 

“Who’s next?”

One by one, Order members stood to deliver what information they had. With every person that spoke, Harry’s stomach sank further. It was becoming clear to him just how flimsy their defense against Voldemort was. Emmeline Vance gave a very short report on her continued recruitment efforts that essentially amounted to the realization that no one wanted to join them. Order members who had been working within the Ministry reported that there were already plans in the works to begin holding false trials for Muggle-borns and imprisoning them for “stealing” magic. 

“For all our efforts to help Muggle-borns go underground, there are still far too many we haven’t been able to reach,” said a tired looking wizard in a turban, who Tonks called Ranbir. “Once the Ministry has their hands on them, there’s little we can do.”

“You’ll have to do everything you can to protect them from within the Ministry,” Tonks said. “But it is essential that you don’t give yourselves up as spies. We need you there.”

As Moody reported his team’s failed attempts to sabotage Voldemort’s recruitment and locate his headquarters, Harry felt eyes on him. He turned and found Draco staring at him, a steely glint in his gray eyes. He lifted one eyebrow as if to say,  _ now do you understand? _ Harry swallowed. 

When Moody sat and Tonks asked if anyone else wished to speak, Harry raised his hand.

“I do.”

A hush fell over the room. Tonks looked momentarily taken aback; then she nodded to Harry, giving him the floor. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, and all coherent thought fled from his mind. 

“Stand up,” Hermione hissed, nudging him. He did, clumsily, his knees weak.

“Er, hello,” Harry said. “I know I’m not really— well, I’m not a task force leader, or even really on a task force. But I have something I need to say.”

Why was this so hard? Harry had led Dumbledore’s Army, had shouted at Umbridge in front of his whole class. But now, with the entire Order of the Phoenix waiting for him to deliver, curiosity and hope on their faces, he felt the way he had when his name came out of the Goblet of Fire: completely unprepared. He looked down, and met Draco’s unyielding gaze. 

Harry cleared his throat. “I think you all know that there’s a connection between me and Voldemort. You’ve probably heard rumors about the prophecy, that I’m the Chosen One, and all that. Well, it’s true, in a way. The prophecy said, ‘Neither can live while the other survives.’ Dumbledore taught me that that meant I would be the one to kill Voldemort. That our lives were bound together.” Harry drew in a shaky breath. “Because of all that, Dumbledore taught me things. He wanted me to be as prepared as possible when I inevitably had to face Voldemort. But the thing is, Dumbledore told me to keep all of it a secret. All the things he told me...things that would help in this fight.” 

Harry felt the shift in the room around him. People at the table leaned forward, or turned to exchange meaningful looks. Those standing by the walls muttered to each other. Would they be grateful to Harry for sharing what he knew, or angry that he had kept it secret for so long? He forced himself to look steadily out at the room, to meet the dozens of eyes pinning him where he stood.

“I think Dumbledore was wrong,” he said, as strongly as he could. “I think everyone here deserves to know what I know. We’re in this fight together, and I don’t think I can do this alone.” He paused once more, gathering his courage, before he spoke. “Voldemort has horcruxes. It’s possible that he has seven of them.” 

It was immediately apparent who knew what a horcrux was, and who didn’t. Half the room looked merely confused, but the other half reacted sharply. Several people gasped. Moody let out a low growl, and poor Dedalus Diggle went white as a sheet.

“I’m sorry,” said the blonde witch. “But what does that mean?”

Tonks got to her feet before Harry could answer. Leaning on the table, she fixed her grim eyes on Harry. “Are you one hundred percent certain, Harry?”

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore showed me. Three of them have been destroyed.”

Tonks nodded, and faced the rest of the room. “A horcrux is powerful dark magic,” she said. “It houses a part of a wizard or witch’s soul, keeping them alive even if their body dies.”

“Horrible!” Emmeline Vance cried.

“That does explain some things,” said Ranbir.

“They’re created through murder,” Moody added, his magic eye swivelling to examine Harry. “Every one of those horcruxes was made with someone’s death.”

Harry nodded. “I know. But they also give us a chance to destroy Voldemort. If we can destroy his horcruxes, he’s just a man. Just like you said, Tonks. A cruel man.”

The meeting dissolved into barely controlled chaos. People fired questions at Harry, who did his best to answer with everything Dumbledore had told him, and at Tonks, who tried to keep everyone calm. In the midst of it all, Harry glanced at Hermione, who gave him a little nod. She looked exhausted, but pleased. When Harry’s eyes fell on Draco, he saw something else. Draco was staring up at him with unguarded intensity. He was looking at Harry like he had never seen him properly before.

“Harry?” someone said. “Are you listening?”

“Er, yes, sorry,” Harry said, jerking his attention back to the meeting at hand. The blonde witch had gotten to her feet, and she was addressing him with her arms crossed over her chest. “What did you say?”

“I was asking you what you expect us to do with this information.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well— I mean, it’s your decision, obviously. But I thought maybe we should destroy the horcruxes.”

“Yes, obviously,” the witch said. “But how? Our resources are stretched thin as it is, and we’re just barely fighting a defensive war. Who are we going to send on this quest to find unknown objects that could be anywhere?”

“We’ll shift our strategy, Delia,” Tonks said, laying a hand on the blonde witch’s shoulder. “This is incredibly valuable information. It’s maybe the only way we  _ can _ go on the offensive.”

Delia frowned. “Maybe it’s because I didn’t go to Hogwarts, but I’m just not sure how much stock I want to put in the educated guesses of a dead man.”

A sudden hush fell over the room, and Delia flushed pink as she realized everyone was staring at her with stony faces.

“She’s right,” Harry said quickly, wanting to avert a useless defense of Dumbledore’s honor. “Basically all we have to go on are the things that Dumbledore thought were true. But he spent years gathering memories and information, and he’s been right so far. He knew that Voldemort had an attachment to the four founders of Hogwarts, and we know that Ravenclaw’s diadem and Slytherin’s locket were horcruxes. The diadem was destroyed. Plus the diary and the ring, that only leaves four.”

“Four is still more horcruxes than any other wizard has ever had,” Moody growled.

“I know,” Harry said. “But we have a chance. I really think we do.”

The meeting dispersed a few minutes later, when Tonks decided everyone was overexcited and that it would be more productive to meet in the morning to discuss details. The kitchen buzzed with chatter, and people kept pulling Harry aside to ask him questions, most of which he didn’t know the answers to. What he really wanted was to disappear upstairs with Hermione and Draco, maybe to sleep.

“Potter,” said a voice that still gave Harry a chill. “Do you think I could speak to you alone?”

Harry had never thought he would be grateful to be pulled away by Snape, but anything was better than his current conversation.

“Yes,” he said. He apologized to the wizard who had been bombarding him with highly technical magical questions far above the level of Harry’s education and followed Snape out into the hall.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Snape said. He stood a good two feet away from Harry, his voice cold, his arms clasped behind his back. “Dumbledore shared some...sensitive information with me as well.” 

Harry’s first thought was,  _ Dumbledore definitely had strange taste in confidantes. _ But his second thought was that Dumbledore’s decisions, when it came to sharing secrets, were very intentional indeed. He confided in the people who most craved his trust, his affection. The people who were least likely to be listened to if they went to someone else: an underage boy and a former Death Eater. It was a shockingly cynical thought, and Harry pushed it away.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Why didn’t you say it in the meeting?”

“I thought,” Snape said, curling the words around his tongue, “that you might want to hear this in private.”


	23. The Deluminator

**Harry**

When Snape finished talking, Harry felt as if he were experiencing the world through a dense fog. Voices drifted from the kitchen, faint and muffled by more than distance. Harry’s own body felt far away. Snape said his goodbyes and swept away up the stairs, leaving Harry alone.

_ Neither can live while the other survives _ . No—  _ neither can live _ . Everything Harry had fought for since he was eleven years old, the endless fight he wasn’t sure he could win, was a lie. He wasn’t meant to win. The glimmer of hope that had begun to grow inside him when he decided to trust Draco and share the burden of the horcruxes with the rest of the Order was gone, extinguished.

“Albus told me to reserve this knowledge until the last possible moment,” Snape had said, his voice aloof as always. He refused to look at Harry while he spoke. “However, in light of our new policy of open discussion, I thought it might be best if you knew now.” He had paused after this, his eyes flitting to Harry’s face. “Perhaps there is no good time to learn something of this nature.”

Turning away from the kitchen, Harry made for the stairs. He had the vague notion of shutting himself in his bedroom and never coming out. But when he got there, he found someone waiting for him outside it.

“What are you doing here?” Harry muttered. Draco shrugged. He was leaning against the wall outside of Harry’s bedroom, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“I just thought...I saw you go off with Snape…” he trailed off with another shrug. “Are you...okay?”

The question made Harry want to laugh. Was he okay? Snape had just told him that he housed a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him. That was the connection between their minds, the root of Harry’s Parseltongue abilities, the last thing tethering Voldemort to life. He was a sacrifice, not a hero.

Some of what Harry was thinking must have shown on his face because Draco straightened, frowning, and opened the bedroom door.

“Let’s go in,” he said.

Still numb, Harry followed Draco into his own bedroom. He made straight for the bed, sinking onto it while Draco hovered awkwardly by the door, which he shut behind them.

“What did he say?” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head. He couldn’t speak the words out loud. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to say them. When he didn’t speak, Draco moved to the bed, and sat beside him. Slowly, as if Harry were a hippogriff who might attack at the smallest slight, he lifted his hand and laid it on Harry’s shoulder. 

The touch, hesitant but warm, broke something in Harry. His whole body curled inward as the weight of what he had just learned fell upon him. Detached memories flooded his mind, each bright moment more painful than the last. Ron and Hermione bickering playfully next to the lake on the Hogwarts grounds. Hagrid crying into his beard when he learned Buckbeak was to be spared. Luna and Ginny kissing at the wedding, distant but gleaming. His parents, dancing in a photograph, the only place they danced anymore.

His parents. His mother’s sacrifice. The first sob shook Harry’s body, and he sank backwards into Draco’s arms. He felt those arms move to encircle him, to hold him as he began to cry. His mother’s sacrifice had been for nothing. She had died so he could live. He had never known her, couldn’t remember being held by her, because Voldemort had decided she needed to die, just as he had decided that Sirius needed to die, and Cedric, and all the other people, known and unknown to Harry, who had died for no reason at all. Now, Harry would be one of them.

“Harry,” Draco said softly, tentatively. Harry remembered, suddenly, whose arms he was in. He found that he didn’t mind. Draco, he knew, wouldn’t judge him for being weak. He wouldn’t try to talk Harry out of his fate, try to make it better. Unlike Ron and Hermione and Ginny, he wouldn’t look so afraid when he saw the darkest parts of Harry’s mind. Who could understand inner torment better than Draco Malfoy?

Harry took a deep breath and tried to steady his breathing enough to speak. When his sobs calmed, he leaned his head on Draco’s shoulder.

“I have to die,” he said. Strangely, it felt like a weight lifted when he spoke the words. That was it, wasn’t it? He had to die.

**Draco**

When Draco finally made it to bed, his whole body was buzzing. He should have been exhausted. The sun had long since risen, and several days worth of things had happened since Draco last slept. But he was completely awake. As he paced back and forth in his bedroom, pausing every now and then when a thought seized him, running his hands through his hair again and again, his overriding preoccupation was:  _ Harry Potter does not have to die _ .

He had no plan, and no answer to the things Snape had told Harry. But he was absolutely certain that this particular event would not come to pass. It couldn’t. It could not be the only way. Alternatives raced through his mind. Could a soul fragment be removed through something other than death? Could Voldemort die even if this part of his soul lived on? Could Dumbledore have been mistaken? Could Snape be lying? It certainly would be a convenient way to lure Harry to his death. But no, Harry said that Snape had shown Harry his own memories, had allowed Harry to perform legilimency on him. There was no faking the inside of one’s mind.

“Another way,” Draco muttered, turning sharply on his heel and stopping. “Something…” He resumed pacing, passing in front of his bed, turning, and coming back. He hadn’t said a word when Harry made his confession, because he knew that wasn’t Harry needed. He had just held him until he fell asleep. But now he had to do something.

The memory of how Harry felt in his arms intruded on Draco’s strategizing, and he stopped pacing once more. This time, he sank slowly onto his bed. He had had inklings of this since the wedding— perhaps since before then, if he was being honest with himself. It was inadvisable, but seemed increasingly unavoidable. Like a metal shaving living with a magnet. Of course the savior of the wizarding world had to be precisely Draco’s type— tall and a bit unkempt— and of course he had to have a smile that sliced right to Draco's core. It was inadvisable, unavoidable, but not unsalvageable. Salazar knew Draco had dealt with unrequited attractions before, and he could do it again.

He fell back on his bed and buried his face in his pillow. Regardless of everything else, he knew one thing for certain.  _ Harry Potter was not going to die _ .

**Harry**

Hermione clicked the silver lighter in her hand, and Harry’s bedroom was plunged into darkness. Another click, and the lights zoomed back to their lamps as if they had never been gone.

“You’re not going to discover anything just turning the lights on and off,” Harry grumbled. He lay on his bed, staring gloomily up at the ceiling, the useless snitch clenched in his fist. It had been weeks since Kingsley passed along Dumbledore’s bequest, and Harry was certain there was no information to be gleaned from the gifts. Hermione, on the other hand, was convinced each item held some secret purpose that would somehow lead them to a horcrux or arm them against Voldemort.

“I’m trying to figure out what else this thing does,” Hermione said. She sat in a chair beside the wardrobe, one knee pulled up to her chest. For the past ten minutes she had been prodding the Deluminator with her wand, muttering spells and flicking the lights on and off. 

“We already know what it does,” Harry said, throwing an arm over his eyes as the room went dark once again. “It’s a keepsake, okay? Just like this snitch, and whatever that book is.”

“Why would Dumbledore leave us keepsakes?” Hermione said for the thousandth time. “He also left you the Sword of Gryffindor.” 

“Which he can’t legally give to me,” Harry said. “That doesn’t mean anything. Once Snape is headmaster he’ll have the sword, and he can hand it right over.”

“The point is, he left you the sword as a message. It’s impregnated with Basilisk venom, Harry! It can be used to destroy horcruxes.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry sighed. They had already been over this, and Harry agreed that Dumbledore bequeathed him the sword as a message. He didn’t believe, however, that just because the sword had significance the other bequests had to as well. Sometimes, a snitch was just a snitch.

“I just wish…” Hermione began. She trailed off, and Harry lifted his arm off his eyes. She was staring out the window, a distant expression on her face. Harry’s heart lurched painfully. He knew exactly what she was thinking, who she was wishing for, and he felt exactly the same. If only Ron were here. Nothing was the same without him. Their conversations went in circles, and it felt like neither of them had laughed since the wedding. It had been less than a month, but it felt like years.

Harry had felt little hope since the day after the wedding. That day, after a few fitful hours of sleep, he had run into Draco in the kitchen when he went to force himself to eat. The sight of that carefully combed blonde head and the shadows under those gray eyes tugged at the knot in Harry’s stomach, reminding him painfully of what had happened the night before. 

“Hey,” Harry said, cornering Draco by the stove. 

“Hey,” Draco said. A flush crept up his cheeks.

“Er— about what I told you,” Harry said. “I’m not going to tell anyone else.”

He expected Draco to protest, to try and talk him out of it. But, to his surprise, Draco nodded. “I won’t say a word,” he said softly.

Gratitude flooded Harry, making him almost weak with relief. He couldn’t quite get his voice to work, so he tried to force his face into some semblance of a smile. It was like his muscles had forgotten how.

That afternoon, the Order met again, and plunged into strategizing. Harry shared everything he knew about the horcruxes, and the gears of planning creaked into motion. 

“R.A.B.,” Tonks said, as soon as Harry revealed the note that had been hidden inside the fake locket. “You know who that is, right?”

“No,” Harry said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out since...that night.”

“He was my cousin,” Tonks said. “We’re in his house.”

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” Draco breathed. “He was a Death Eater.”

“I always heard he got cold feet,” Tonks said. “I never knew…” Tonks glanced at Draco, and they shared a weighty look. 

“Wait,” Harry said, struggling to process this new information. “Do you mean the person who took the real locket was Sirius’s brother? And he lived here? You don’t think…?”

For a moment, silence hung over the table. Then, almost at once, everyone leapt to their feet.

They tore the house up from top to bottom. There was nothing in Regulus’s room, nothing in the drawing room, nothing in the cellars, nothing in the attics. Finally, Hermione thought to ask Kreacher. 

When the house elf finished his tearful story and disappeared back to his nest with the fake locket clutched to his chest, Tonks began strategizing at once. She sent several people to track down Mundungus Fletcher, but none were successful.

“He must have gone to ground after he robbed this place,” Tonks said. “If Fletcher took the locket, I guarantee you it’s in someone else’s hands now. He doesn’t keep his products around for long.”

“Do we know what the locket looks like?” asked Delia, the blonde witch who was a spy in the Ministry. All eyes turned to Harry.

“Er, it’s sort of big,” he said, trying to remember the image he had seen in Dumbledore’s pensieve, “and gold, with a snake on the front. In the shape of an S.”

“Right,” Delia said. “At least it’s distinctive.”

But Harry didn’t exactly expect someone to stumble across it walking down the street. The bright flare of having a lead faded away. They were back to having almost nothing.

It turned out that being a part of the Order’s meetings wasn’t as exciting or useful as Harry had hoped it would be. He was assigned to an Intelligence task force, but, as he was considered too important to be let out of Grimmauld Place, his job mostly consisted of taking notes. He sat in on meeting after meeting, recording ever more dire information.

The Ministry spies reported that a Muggleborn Registration Commission was quickly taking shape, and it was rumored it would be run by none other than Dolores Umbridge.

“They’re calling people in for ‘trials,’” Ranbir reported at one meeting. “I think they mean to send them all to Azkaban, or worse.”

Meanwhile, the horcrux task force, of which Harry was an honorary member, was getting nowhere. Their meetings went in endless circles of speculation as they continually failed to track down Mundungus Fletcher or get a lead on any other horcrux.

Now, with little to distract him, Harry could think of only two things: the Weasleys trapped with Death Eaters, and the inevitability of his own death.

“He’ll be okay, Hermione,” Harry said, trying to reassure her with confidence he didn’t have. 

“Of course he will,” Hermione said briskly. She lifted the Deluminator once more, and raised her wand to cast yet another spell. But at that moment, the Deluminator clicked of its own accord, and the faintest whisper of a voice emerged from inside it.

“...mione…” it said. Harry sat up abruptly, and Hermione looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Did that just—” Harry began, but Hermione shushed him.

“ _ Sonorus _ ,” she muttered, and the Deluminator’s voice swelled.

“I’ve got to find a way,” it said, and this time, it was unmistakable. The voice belonged to Ron.

“Ron!” Hermione cried, holding the Deluminator up to her mouth. “Ron, can you hear me?”

“I know,” the voice continued as if Hermione hadn’t spoken. “But I don’t have a choice. I can’t just sit here.”

“He can’t hear us,” Harry said, his heart sinking. For a moment, hope had flared inside him, only to fade away again, leaving him feeling bleaker than before. How did it help them to hear Ron’s voice, if they couldn’t communicate with him?

But Hermione didn’t seem ready to give up. She clutched the Deluminator to her chest and whispered Ron’s name as she clicked it. 

The lights in the room vanished— all but one, that hovered, sourceless, in the middle of the room. From the light, Ron’s voice spoke again.

“They’re everything to me. I can’t just leave them to do this on their own, Gin.”

Hermione reached out a trembling hand, and the light drifted to meet it. The moment it touched her fingertips, she gasped, and the light flared.

“Ron!” she cried. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Ron’s voice filled the room again.

“Hermione?”

Harry’s heart leapt in his chest, and he scrambled towards the edge of the bed. Hermione had done it. She’d found a way to communicate with Ron.

“Ron,” Hermione gasped. “You can hear me?”

“Where are you?” Ron cried. “You’re not here, are you? You better not be here.”

“I’m not,” Hermione said. “I’m at Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore gave us this Deluminator, and— well, it’s too much to explain right now.”

“Whatever it is, you’re a genius, Hermione.” He paused. “Is Harry there?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Can you hear me?”

Only silence in response.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He can hear you. But this connection...I think you can only hear me.”

“And they can’t detect it?”

Hermione glanced at Harry, who shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think it’s safe.”

For a moment they were all silent. Harry closed his eyes, sinking into the brief bliss of relief. They could talk to Ron. With the three of them together, they would figure something out. They always had before. 

“Do you  _ want _ to be a ferret, boy?” Moody growled when Harry attempted to barge into Tonks’s office uninvited. “This is a closed-door meeting. New intelligence information.”

“First of all,” Harry said, backing away from Moody’s raised wand. “I’m on the Intelligence Task Force. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be allowed in that meeting.”

Moody raised his wand higher, and Harry continued hurriedly.

“But we also have some new information that I think Tonks would want to know. Immediately.”

With great reluctance, Moody lowered his wand. He knocked on the door of Tonks’s office with his staff, and, a moment later, Delia poked her head out.

“Yes?” she said.

“Potter’s out here with an important message.”

Delia glanced at Harry and Hermione, then opened the door wider. “Perfect timing. I think you’ll want to hear what I found out.”

Tonks called an emergency meeting for that afternoon.

“I don’t know why I bother going home at all,” Emmeline Vance complained as she took her seat at the kitchen table next to Dedalus Diggle.

“I promise, this is worth it,” Tonks said, rising to her feet. Her hair exploded from her head in a riot of magenta curls, and her eyes shone as she looked out at the assembled Order. Harry sat between Draco and Hermione, his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs. Finally, they would take action. No more sitting around Grimmauld Place, waiting for opportunity. It was time.

“What exactly did you tell Tonks to make her so excited?” Draco muttered, leaning in close to Harry’s ear. His breath sent a shiver down Harry’s spine; he was so on edge, he was reacting to everything.

“You’ll see,” he whispered back.

When silence finally fell, Tonks spoke.

“Today we are going to take our first offensive action against the Death Eaters,” she said. “We’re ready.”

Standing at Tonks’s shoulder, Delia beamed. 

“Offensive action!” Dedalus Diggle murmured. “Oh my.”

“We received two important pieces of information today. The first is that we have a way to communicate safely with the Weasleys.”

A collective cry of relief went up in the room. 

“Good thing, too,” one witch muttered. “They’re half our ranks.”

“The second piece of information,” Tonks said loudly, over the chatter. “Is that the locket has been sighted in the possession of Dolores Umbridge.”

Umbridge’s name moved through the room like a Dementor, and a chill silence fell over the Order.

“I saw it,” Delia said. “She wore it to  _ work _ today, if you can believe it. I don’t think she knows what it is.”

“We know this is not ideal,” Tonks said. “But we have a plan.”

“Excellent,” Professor McGonagall said, staring around the table as if daring anyone to protest the idea. “How do we begin?”

Step by step, Tonks outlined the plan that she and Harry and Hermione and the rest of the task force had birthed in her office less than an hour earlier. Harry’s chest swelled with pride. It was a good plan. Risky, yes. But somehow, he just knew it would work.

When Tonks finished her explanation, she began to divide everyone into special task forces. 

“Harry and Hermione have already volunteered to be the Advance Guard,” she said. “We need at least one more person, preferably—”

“I’ll do it,” said a voice behind Harry. He turned to see Draco getting to his feet.

“I was going to say ‘preferably someone with more experience,’” Tonks said.

“I’ll do it,” Draco repeated, and there was a glint in his eye that told Harry he was not to be trifled with. “You can send someone more experienced too, but I’m going.”

Tonks stared him down for a moment. Then, she gave a little nod. “Fine. Draco, you’ll be on the Advance Guard. Remus, would you…?”

Remus nodded. “I’ll keep them in line,” he said, a wry smile crossing his face as his eyes met Harry’s. Harry grinned. Looking from Remus to Draco, who had returned to his seat and was now avoiding Harry’s eye, Harry couldn’t imagine a better team. The only thing that would make it better was Ron, and he wouldn’t have to wait long before that was a reality.


	24. Once More into the Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading this, especially everyone who commented and left kudos. I legitimately thought no one would read this, and I was so shocked and excited when I got my first comment. So really, you all make my day <3
> 
> Also, this chapter has some dark moments. (Not that the entire fic doesn't, it's so angsty XD). Let's put it this way, nothing bad happens to anyone we care about but the bad guys do not necessarily all meet pleasant ends.

The next morning, well before dawn, Harry, Hermione, Draco, and Remus huddled at the foot of a grassy hill, shrouded in mist.

“My coffee’s gone cold,” Draco complained, clutching the mug he had insisted on bringing along. Hermione and Remus shushed him. Harry just grinned. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Molly’s usually got a pot on.”

Somewhere in the Ministry of Magic, Delia, polyjuiced into a low-level Death Eater, was waiting outside Dolores Umbridge’s office carrying a very important message from the Minister himself.

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named communicates with Ministry officials through Thicknesse,” Delia had explained. “But a few— Umbridge included— are in direct contact with him. Sometimes, when something is very important, he sends a messenger to hand-deliver orders.” 

When Umbridge arrived at her office that morning, she would read a letter bearing the Dark Mark seal, copied painstakingly off of Draco’s arm, that would inform her of an arrest to be made that required her presence.

According to the Order’s Ministry spies, Umbridge, as the head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, rarely made arrests herself. But when a particularly important Muggle-born or blood traitor was to be captured, she often appeared to flaunt her authority and bask in the glory.

This morning, Umbridge would be summoned to an arrest she would be unable to resist: the capture of a fugitive who had been hiding right under the Death Eaters’ noses all along, a Muggleborn with known connections to Undesirable Number One.

“She won’t be able to resist,” Delia had said. 

“No,” Hermione said grimly. “She won’t. Even besides Voldemort, we have a history.”

Briefly, memories of Dumbledore’s Army and the Inquisitorial Squad seemed to fill the air between Harry, Hermione, and Draco. A history indeed.

Now, Hermione, wrapped in a thick woolen sweater, clutched the Deluminator tightly in one hand. They had discovered that the connection between her and Ron was activated whenever Ron spoke her name. Through that connection, Ron had fed them information about the Burrow’s protections and guards. Now, when the diversion took place inside the Burrow, Ron would whisper Hermione’s name to signal it was time to go.

The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to gild the mist over the horizon when a whisper came from the Deluminator.

“Hermione,” it said. “It’s time.”

Harry met Hermione’s eye, and she gave a grim nod. 

“Draco, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave your coffee behind,” Remus said.

Draco scowled, but he set the mug down carefully, hiding it in a tuft of grass as if he expected to be returning for it. For all of his outward persnicketiness, Harry could tell that Draco was frightened. His face was deathly pale, and he kept worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth. He was frightened, but he was here. He had volunteered to be here.

Hermione reached into the pocket of her robes and produced a small beaded handbag. It looked quite innocuous, but Hermione had explained to them all the day before that she had altered it with an Undetectable Expansion Charm back when she thought she, Ron, and Harry would be departing on their own to hunt horcruxes. 

“Can people survive in there?” Tonks had asked. 

“For at least an hour,” Hermione said. It reminded Harry chillingly of the first (and hopefully last) time he ate gillyweed. 

“An hour’s enough,” he said.

Now, Hermione opened the bag and laid it on the ground. Remus approached it with a doubtful expression. He lifted one foot, aiming it at the opening— and it sunk straight down as if he had just reached a drop-off in a stream.

“Well,” he said, with a doleful look at Harry. “Here I go.” 

Moments later, he had vanished entirely into the handbag. 

“I’ll go next,” Harry said, seeing the look of extreme distaste on Draco’s face. He approached the bag and stared down at it, looking for any sign of its magical nature. It appeared perfectly ordinary. It opened into a small pouch lined with lavender silk. Remus was nowhere to be seen. But when Harry stepped into it, it felt like walking down an invisible set of stairs. The opening didn’t seem to expand at all, but he had no trouble fitting both his legs in, then his hips, then his shoulders. He hesitated for a moment before he ducked his head inside. 

At first, all he saw was darkness. Then, wandlight swam into view.

“Harry?”

It was Remus, wand aloft, striding through an expansive and very cluttered room.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed. He lit his wand and held it up. The interior of the handbag had become a warehouse of sorts, but with cushioned walls of lavender silk. Assorted items were scattered all around: stacks of books, folded clothes, bottles and boxes, and yet more books.

“Wow,” Harry said. “Hermione really is always prepared.” 

“You have good taste in friends, Harry,” Remus said, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t jostle the bag too much.”

Draco came down a minute later, muttering under his breath about the absurdity of it all. Apparently, fear made him tetchy. Harry smiled, oddly comforted by the familiarity of it.

“I suppose we ought to make ourselves at home,” Remus said, sitting down on a pile of folded blankets. 

“I’d rather not,” Draco said. He crossed his arms over his chest and Harry couldn’t resist nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Oh, cheer up. I know it’s not Malfoy Manor, but it’ll do.”

Draco blushed quite satisfyingly. Then, the ground beneath them lurched. Harry tumbled backwards into the wall and Draco fell into him, grabbing Harry’s arm for balance.  
“I told you to get comfortable,” Remus said. “You might want to sit down.”

Draco dropped Harry’s arm quickly and plopped himself down on the floor. Harry only remained standing a moment longer, as the bag began to jounce back and forth in a sickening way that sent him sinking to the floor whether he wanted to or not. 

From that moment on, Harry had little idea of what was happening outside of the handbag’s jolts and jostles. He knew what was meant to be happening, however, and he anxiously tried to determine whether the handbag’s movements indicated that everything was going to plan. Did the sudden stillness mean that the Death Eater guard had been diverted from the fence, and Hermione was crouching in wait? Did the earthquake mean Umbridge had arrived, and Hermione was pretending to flee so she could be caught and brought within the Burrow’s wards? When they were turned on their heads, dodging soaring books and other hazardous objects, was Hermione falling to the ground? Was she hurt? Had Umbridge decided to drag her straight to the Ministry instead?

There was nothing Harry could do but wait, and he hated it. When things grew calm within the bag once more, he stood and began to pace, grinding his teeth, straining to hear any sound outside of the purse’s thick cushioning. What if Hermione couldn’t get to the bag to free them? What if something had already gone wrong?

“How much time has passed?” Draco asked. His voice was steady, but a half-octave higher than normal.

“Only a quarter hour,” Remus said. He had his pocketwatch in his hand, and had for a few minutes now, as if he were watching the seconds tick by. Harry couldn’t believe so little time had passed. It felt like an age. 

Out of nowhere, Harry’s stomach twinged. It was a feeling not unlike that of traveling by Portkey, like a hook behind his navel. The next thing he knew he was hurtling through the air, and tumbling onto a hard surface. 

Shouts broke out around him and he scrambled to his feet, raising his wand and struggling to get his bearings. He saw curtains, Mrs. Weasley’s startled face, a blur of movement— and his eyes fell on Umbridge, her face contorted with horror and rage. He reacted instantly.

“Stupefy!” 

She froze and toppled to the ground, that awful expression frozen on her face. 

At once, two Ministry officials rushed for Harry, wands out. But spells flew over Harry’s head, and both men toppled to the ground, one writhing as he was tickled mercilessly by invisible hands, the other, more sensibly, stunned.

“A tickle jinx?” he heard Remus say from behind him. “Really?” He stunned the other Ministry official with a flick of his wand. Hermione had pulled Remus and Draco from the bag too.

“Where are the Death Eaters?” Harry asked, looking around. They were in the Burrow’s living room. The entire Weasley family was bound and gagged on the floor, and Hermione was similarly restrained beside Harry, facing the Weasleys. Umbridge and her minions lay on the floor between them. Hermione’s beaded bag was clutched in one of her tied hands; somehow she had managed to wiggle it free behind her back and pull Harry, Draco, and Remus out of it.

Ron made some muffled noises that seemed to be an attempt to answer Harry’s question. Harry hurried to ungag him, and Remus and Draco set about doing the same for Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys. When Ron’s gag fell free, he grinned.

“Good to see you, mate.” 

Harry grinned back. He wanted to pull Ron into a Hagrid-worthy hug, but there wasn’t time. “The Death Eaters?”

“They’re out guarding the house. Guess Umbridge thought she could handle us in here. You might want to see about them.”

“I’ll do it,” Remus said. He left the room, and returned less than a minute later. “Got them through the kitchen window,” he said. 

As soon as Mrs. Weasley was freed, she went about hugging everyone, and Mr. Weasley clapped Harry on the back and said, “Fine rescue, fine rescue indeed.”

“Guess we’re all fugitives now,” Fred said, rubbing his wrists where they had been tied too tightly. Fleur leaned against Bill, worry written on her lovely face. 

“Thanks, Harry,” Bill said softly. Harry’s stomach flip-flopped.

“Yeah, er...just part of the job. I guess.” He hoped Draco hadn’t heard that bit.

“So, what now?” Ginny asked. “We just...go to Grimmauld Place?”

“There’s one more thing we have to do,” Harry said. But when he turned to Umbridge’s prone form, he saw that Draco was already kneeling by her side. There, sprawled on her chest, was a gold locket adorned with an intricate ‘S.’ Draco looked up, and Harry met his gaze. He saw a tremor of fear there, in Draco’s gray eyes, but also something hard and resolute. It sent a little shiver through Harry, like a static shock. He realized that Draco was the only person in this room besides Harry who had ever destroyed a horcrux before. Although Harry hadn’t done it knowingly, he still remembered the awful shudder of rage that had surged from diary, and the blood that had spilled from its pages. For a moment, he felt as though he and Draco were the only two people in the room— the only ones who felt the true gravity of that locket’s presence. 

“Is that…?” Hermione began, moving closer and reaching for the locket. Draco’s hand shot out and caught her wrist before she could touch it.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s better not to.”

Remus produced a handkerchief and knelt beside Draco. Wrapping the handkerchief around the locket, he yanked it from Umbridge’s neck and tucked it away in his pocket.

“We should Obliviate them all,” he said. “You-Know-Who can’t discover what we’re after.”

“You mean we’re not going to…?” George drew a line across his neck to indicate what he thought they should do to Umbridge and the Death Eaters. 

Remus hesitated. Harry had an eery sense of deja vu. He remembered standing in the Shrieking Shack while Peter Pettigrew pleaded for his life. He remembered telling Remus not to kill Peter, but to take him back to the castle, to the Dementors. Remus and Sirius had wanted to kill him. They had wanted to prevent him from doing exactly what he had done: running back to his master and helping him return to power.

He met Remus’s eye, and thought he saw a flicker of understanding there.

“You all go back to Grimmauld Place,” Remus said somewhat hoarsely. “I’ll take care of things here.” 

Back at Grimmauld Place, half a dozen people volunteered to destroy the horcrux. Tonks offered it to Harry, but he refused.

“I think it should be Hermione. She’s the one who got us in there. It was all her.”

Hermione, jaw clenched tightly, agreed. She accepted the Sword of Gryffindor from Snape, but before she could wield it, Draco said,

“Wait. I think you should do it in private. The horcrux...it’s going to say things to you. Things you might not want someone else to hear.”

So the rest of the Order filed out of the drawing room, leaving Hermione alone with the locket.

“I don’t like this,” Ron grumbled. But a few minutes later Hermione emerged, sweaty and tight-lipped, clutching a shattered horcrux in one hand. Harry’s heart beat faster at the sight of it. Four horcruxes destroyed. Only three more tethering Voldemort to life.  _ Only two more between you and death _ . But he couldn’t think like that. Not now. Not yet.

Remus returned shortly after. He didn’t say a word about what had happened at the Burrow, but he caught Harry’s eye and gave a curt nod. Harry returned it with grim satisfaction. He was no longer the same boy who had intervened on Pettigrew’s behalf. 


	25. Love and Fear

“You have no idea how glad I am to have you back,” Draco said, shutting the door to Ginny’s bedroom softly behind him. It was nearly midnight, but in the chaos of the afternoon, Draco had been unable to get Ginny alone to talk to her. Finally, when the Order meeting threatened to go long into the night, Ginny tapped Draco on the shoulder and jerked her head to the door, and they snuck away together. 

Ginny slumped onto her bed, boneless with exhaustion. “I hated it,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “I never felt like I wanted to escape my own house before.”

“I have,” Draco said, without thinking.

Ginny’s hands slid away from her face. “I guess you have.” She paused. “Did he ever possess you?”

Draco shook his head, wondering why she would ask something like that. The Dark Lord didn’t exactly go around possessing random Death Eaters.

“That’s what it felt like,” she said. “Having Death Eaters in our house. It was just like when I had  _ him _ ...in me. Like somewhere I used to think was safe was being invaded.”

“Oh.” Draco’s stomach plummeted. How could he have forgotten? He perched on the edge of Ginny’s bed, avoiding her eye. Silence stretched between them; Draco felt he had to say something, but there really wasn’t anything to say. He was certain Ginny would kick him if he tried to apologize, not because she didn’t deserve it, but because she wouldn’t be able to stand that much outright sentimentality. He decided to try anyway. “About that year. The diary. I’m so sorry—”

Ginny kicked him. “Hey,” she said. “You haven’t asked me about Luna.”

Draco turned to look at her. She was, as he had expected, completely dry eyed. But there was a flicker of something in her expression that told him she desperately needed him to go along with the subject change. “Well, I’ve been a bit busy, haven’t I?” he said. “Besides, I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“What?” Ginny squawked. “No you didn’t. I barely realized until about two weeks ago.”

“You’re a bit oblivious, then, aren’t you? I could tell when we were still under  _ iterum vivere _ .”

Ginny threw a pillow at him. “I was still with Harry!”

“Barely.”

“Speaking of oblivious,” Ginny said, eyes narrowing. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself with Harry at the wedding.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“The dancing. The running off into the trees.”

“Our Polyjuice wore off,” Draco scoffed. “What are you implying?”

Ginny shrugged. 

“You’re just deflecting.” Draco picked up the pillow Ginny had thrown and tossed it back at her. “I know you’re going to kick me for it, but I have to say— I’m happy for you.”

Ginny did kick him, but her cheeks pinked. “Now that I’m not under house arrest anymore I can write her,” she said. “We didn’t really get much of a chance to talk after…”

“After you snogged at your brother’s wedding?”

“Yes,” Ginny said. “Exactly.” 

After the locket, things moved astonishingly quickly in the Order. Tonks gathered everyone to pool information and intel, and before long, the horcrux hunt developed a few solid leads.

Bill reached out to his Gringotts contacts and informed them that Bellatrix Lestrange had recently upped the security on her private vault.

“It might be nothing,” he said. “But she could be keeping something there. For him.”

“Nothing is nothing,” Tonks said, making a note of it.

Within weeks they had developed a plan, and a special task force was sent to break into Gringotts. With Bill’s insider knowledge, it went as smoothly as could be expected, and it was Bill who destroyed Hufflepuff’s cup.

In the ensuing celebration, a chant rose up among the Order. 

“Two more! Two more!”

Tonks had her arm around Delia on one side and Ron on the other, their faces flushed with butterbeer and excitement. Hermione and Ginny jumped up and down, while Remus and Kingsley looked on from the side of the room, both wearing expressions of bemused indulgence.

Draco’s eyes slid over the frenzy and found Harry, who stood right in the center of it all. He was smiling, but it looked pinched, and there was something frantic in his eyes. Moving from his place by the hearth, Draco slipped through the joyous crowd until he found himself right behind Harry. 

“Balcony,” he whispered, close enough that no one else could hear. Harry stiffened, then nodded without turning. Draco backed away, squeezing between Ron and the twins, who were now attempting to open a very old and expensive bottle of champagne, and slipped out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and up yet more stairs until he reached the balcony. 

It was a clear, hot night. The enchanted stars hung low, casting silvery light over the marble balustrade and the grassy hills below. Leaning on the railing, Draco knew that the meadow below him and the stars above didn’t exist, but he could smell the sweet tang of grass and feel a slight breeze that he knew wasn’t blowing over London. 

He didn’t have to wait long for Harry. When he heard the scuffle of a step behind him, he didn’t turn. Harry came to stand beside him, his hands in the pockets of his robes, his gaze fixed on the mirage of a view. Draco watched him out of the corner of his eye, drinking in the smooth lines of his face, gilded with starlight, and the curls tangling on his forehead. When he couldn’t take the silence any longer, he said,

“You didn’t seem to be enjoying the celebration.” 

“I didn’t?” Harry turned to look at Draco. “I was trying not to show it.”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know if anyone else noticed. They wouldn’t have any reason to think you wouldn’t be happy.”

“Right.” Harry’s lip curled in a half smile. “I wish I could forget it. I wish I could forget he ever told me. Cause then, when the time came— I’d just do it. I would realize it, and do it, because I wouldn’t have any other choice. I wouldn’t have to wait like this.”

“Don’t say that,” Draco said, and it came out harsh. “It’s good that you know. That way we can do something to prevent it.”

Harry shook his head. “Do what? It’s inside me, Draco. Part of...part of him. That’s why…” he trailed off. “I want it gone.”

“Of course you do,” Draco said. “But there has to be another way. I’ve been doing a bit of research. The Black family library actually has a whole section on horcruxes, which I should have guessed. I’ve been sneaking in there when Kreacher isn’t around, and there are some accounts of soul fragments being removed without destroying their container. Well, I suppose they’re more ‘legends’ than ‘accounts,’ but I think—”

“Were any of those containers alive?” Harry asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“I really appreciate this, Draco,” Harry said. “Really. I do, but— can we talk about something else?”

Draco opened his mouth argue, but the pleading look in Harry’s eyes stopped him. “Of course,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “Er— caught any good Quidditch matches lately?”

Harry laughed. “You know, funny enough, I haven’t.” He looked out over the meadow. “It’s weird, isn’t it, that everyone’s back at Hogwarts now?” 

“Yes, a bit,” Draco said. When September first had rolled around, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Ginny had kept a silent watch on the clock all morning. They didn’t speak of it, but he knew they were all watching the instant the Hogwarts Express departed.

“Wish that was real,” Harry said, gesturing out at the view. “We could find a couple of broomsticks and go for a fly. I actually have a Snitch, I could beat you just like old times.”

“At least half of the times you caught the Snitch it was because I was unfairly distracted,” Draco protested. Harry turned to him, grinning, the light catching in his eyes. 

“Distracted by what?” he asked, and Draco’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach. 

“You know,” he sputtered. “Dementors, at least once.”

“Pretty sure that was the time I fell off my broom and it was destroyed by the Whomping Willow. Also, I don't even think you were playing. That game was against Hufflepuff.”

“You used to distract me with insults.”

“Sort of think that’s on you, mate. Shouldn’t have let me get to you.”

Draco felt the heat rush to his cheeks, and hoped Harry couldn’t tell in the darkness. He wanted to keep talking this way, to see that grin on Harry’s face, to act like they were friends, bright and uncomplicated. But the truth weighed on his chest, dragging the brightness down with it. He took a shaky breath.

“I’ve never actually said,” he said, “how sorry I am.”

Harry’s grin folded up. He said nothing.

“Nothing that I did is forgivable,” Draco went on. He stared out at the meadow, knowing that if he looked at those steady, shining eyes, he would never be able to get the words out. “I wouldn’t ask for that. But I am sorry.”

There was a long silence. It was probably only a few seconds, but to Draco it felt like several excruciating minutes.

“You know,” Harry said finally. Draco was surprised that his voice was calm, almost light. “Ginny told me you might try to apologize. I didn’t believe her. It was a while ago,” he added. “It doesn’t surprise me now. But it almost feels...not unnecessary, but like you already have.”

Draco dared to glance at Harry. He was studying Draco, no hint of malice or disgust on his face. Just something gentle, like curiosity. Everything inside of Draco melted, and he became suddenly very aware of the few trembling inches of space between his body and Harry’s. So small, yet utterly insurmountable.

“I’ve been trying to,” Draco said, and his voice came out hoarse. “Everything I’ve...I’ve been trying to.”

“I know,” Harry said. Their eyes met, and neither of them spoke. The seconds stretched between them, and with each one that passed Draco knew he should break his gaze, but he couldn’t. The green of Harry’s eyes was just visible in the starlight, and he didn’t look away. Warmth ricocheted through Draco’s body, every nerve catching and lighting. 

A rattle shook him from his reverie and he whirled around to see Hermione poking her head out onto the balcony.

“Oh, there you are,” she said. Her voice was cheerful, but her eyes darted back and forth between Harry and Draco with a bit too much inquisitiveness. “You left the party.”

“Had a bit too much to drink,” Draco said.

“Er— me too,” Harry said. "Got dizzy."

“Right.” Hermione hesitated in the doorway. “Well, I was just heading to bed, but there are still lots of Weasleys downstairs if you want to join the festivities again. Fred and George have started reenacting some sort of wizard ballad.”

“Not the Adventures of Elvin the Erroneous?” Draco asked.

“I think it might be,” Hermione said. “There was a troll battle in the beginning.”

“Yes, definitely Elvin.” Draco wondered if he was talking too much. He was still vividly aware of Harry’s body next to his. 

Hermione nodded. “Well, I’m off to bed then. Night, you two.” 

They said goodnight, and Hermione disappeared back inside. After a moment or two of silence, Draco said,

“Fancy a bit of amateur theater?”

Harry laughed. “Surprisingly, I’m not in the mood.”

Draco laughed too. He knew he should go to bed himself, and fast, before he did or said something he regretted. But he just couldn’t help himself. 

“You should tell them,” he said. “Ron and Hermione. About what Snape told you.”

Harry looked down at his feet, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“They worry about you.”

“That’s exactly why I can’t tell them,” Harry said. “They’d never let me do it, when the time came.”

“Ah. And you think I would?” Draco struggled to keep his voice even as his throat tightened. The last brilliant sparks of what he had felt when Harry held his gaze sputtered and died.  _ You think I don’t care? _

“Not...I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry said. “It’s just—different.”

“Of course,” Draco said. “I understand.” He shifted away from the railing. “I should probably go to bed.”

Harry looked like he wanted to say something else, but he just nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m going to stay out here a little longer.”

“Right. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Draco.” 

Draco headed for his room, feeling like a rag wrung out to dry. He had just reached his bedroom door when he heard a clatter and an eruption of voices on the stairs. It was the Weasley children, coming to bed. Fred and George reached the landing first, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, still singing snatches of Elvin’s ballad. They were followed by Ron, unsteady on his feet, and Bill, looking very put-upon. 

“Okay,” Bill said, herding Ron towards his room. “Keep it down, people are trying to sleep. Oh, hello, Draco.” 

Draco waved half-heartedly as the twins stumbled past him to their room. Ginny trailed up the stairs after her brothers, still clutching a bottle of butterbeer and hiccuping quietly to herself. 

“Where did you get that?” Bill said. He sighed, and snatched the bottle from Ginny’s hand. “That’s enough. Go to bed, the lot of you.” 

He shook his head, and, with one last sigh, trudged up yet another staircase to the room he shared with Fleur. As soon as he was out of sight, Draco beckoned Ginny. 

“Hey,” he said. “How drunk are you? I— I’d like to talk about something.” 

“Not drunk,” Ginny said, and stumbled towards him. Draco decided that would have to be good enough. He steered Ginny into his room, deposited her on his bed, and waved his wand to turn on the lights.

“Cozy,” Ginny said, her voice muffled by Draco’s pillow. Draco perched on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Ginny,” he said. “I know you’re completely out of it, but I...I feel as though I have to say this. Even if you’re not really listening.” In fact, he reflected, it might be better if she weren’t listening at all, and would forget it all by the morning. “I think you might have been right. About...the things you said.”

“What things?”

“About Harry.”

“I said things about Harry?”

“I— the other night. You called me oblivious.”

“Obvilus,” Ginny repeated. She frowned. “Ol-biv-i-us. Obilvius.”

Draco made a noise of frustration. “I’m in love with Harry, okay?”

Saying the words out loud sent shivers of exquisite terror down Draco’s spine. Ginny sat up at once, looking instantly more alert, despite the strands of hair stuck to her cheek.

“Harry?” she said. “Harry...Potter?”

Draco pressed his hands over his eyes. “Yes, Harry Potter. Merlin, I shouldn’t have said anything.” He was only just remembering that Ginny, in addition to being his friend, was also Harry’s ex.

“You...are in love...with Harry Potter?”

“I’ve already said it once, don’t make me say it again.” He let his hands fall from his eyes. Ginny’s face was moving slowly through a series of expressions, and Draco could almost see her sorting sluggishly through all the implications in her mind. Finally, her face settled on an almost thoughtful expression.

“I think it’s...good,” she said.

“You think it’s  _ good _ ? Ginny, this is the worst possible thing that could happen in this situation. I just got Harry to stop thinking I’m an absolute prick. I don’t deserve him. I could never deserve him. So now I just get to silently torture myself every time he’s close, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”

Ginny shook her head. “Draco. You are a beautiful man.” She leaned forward earnestly, and put one hand on either side of Draco’s face. “Thank you for telling me your secrets.”

“I— you’re welcome.” He should have known better than to expect coherent advice from Ginny in this state. 

“Now I’m going to sleep.” Before Draco could do anything to prevent it, Ginny fell backwards onto his pillow. A few moments later, she began to snore.

“Wonderful,” Draco muttered to himself. “Just perfect.” 

But he had to admit, once he changed into his pajamas and crawled into what little room Ginny had left him on the bed, that it was nice to fall asleep to the sound of someone else snoring, and their reassuring weight on the other side of the mattress. 

In the morning, Draco woke to the sound of Ginny moaning.

“What happened to my head?” she groaned. “Was I hexed?”

“You drank yourself under the table is what happened,” Draco said, stifling a huge yawn. “What time is it?”

Someone rapped loudly on the door, making Ginny bury her head in the pillow.

“You’ll be late for your task force meeting,” Hermione said from outside the door. “Also, is Ginny in there? I can’t find her anywhere.”

“I’m here,” Ginny mumbled.

“She’s here,” Draco said. He hoped Hermione didn’t assume anything untoward had happened. “I’ll be down in a few.”

He dragged himself out of bed and over to the wardrobe to get dressed. He was almost out of the room when Ginny said,

“Don’t think I forgot about what you said last night. We’re dealing with that as soon as I stop feeling like there are rocks falling on my skull.”

Luckily for Draco, all thoughts of his unfortunate feelings were driven from Ginny’s mind when she heard the latest news.

Draco learned of it when Snape made a rare appearance in the morning meeting of the Intelligence Task Force, to which Draco had been promoted. It had become harder and harder for Snape to sneak away or even to communicate with the Order now that he was headmaster of Hogwarts as well as one of You-Know-Who’s most trusted Death Eaters, but he had managed it that day, and he came bearing news that twisted Draco’s stomach in knots.

“Dumbledore’s Army has been rallying again,” he said in his usual cool tone. “I have been unable to reign in the Carrows without provoking suspicion. So a group of students has been agitating under the name Potter used two years ago. I believe they are being led, as unlikely as it may seem, by Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom.”

Draco imagined Luna sneaking about the castle at night, freeing students chained in the dungeons and scrawling magical graffiti in the Great Hall, and his heart swelled with terror and affection. She was already a target for You-Know-Who. It wouldn’t be long before…

When the meeting adjourned, Draco asked Tonks if he could share the news Snape had delivered. 

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be sharing it in our evening memo anyway. I’m sure Neville and Luna’s friends will want to know.”

He went to Ginny first. She was still in Draco’s bed, nursing her hangover with an enormous mug of coffee she must have summoned from the kitchen or beguiled Kreacher into bringing her. When she saw the look on Draco’s face, she sat up straighter.

“What is it?”

“It’s Luna,” he said. “She’s been reviving Dumbledore’s Army at Hogwarts.”

Ginny went white as a sheet. “No, oh...Merlin. We talked about it, earlier in the summer. We said if You-Know-Who ever took over Hogwarts we’d stage a resistance. But that was when I thought I would be there, before her dad was printing all that stuff.”

“I wish we could talk to her,” Draco said. There was very little chance of safely communicating with Luna. All mail in and out of Hogwarts was being watched, and he was sure the mail of suspicious people like the Lovegoods was being watched all the more closely. 

“I’ve been writing her under a fake name,” Ginny said, setting her coffee down on the bedside table. “Using a different owl every time. But I don’t know how I could ask about the D.A. without getting her in trouble.”

“You can’t,” Draco said. “You probably shouldn’t be writing her at all.”

Ginny sighed and buried her face in her hands. “She can take care of herself,” she said. “Right?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “She’s an extraordinary witch.” He said it to reassure Ginny, but found it a bit reassuring himself. 

“She can take care of herself,” Ginny repeated. “But if she gets in trouble, I don’t care what Tonks says. I’m going after her.”

As it turned out, Ginny didn’t have to wait long. Less than a week after Snape delivered his first news, he sent a coded message through the fireplace at Grimmauld Place. It floated out of the flames when half the Order was eating lunch, and Tonks snatched it out of the air and decoded it on the spot. When she finished, she looked up gravely at the silent faces watching her.

“The Dumbledore’s Army instigators were captured,” she said. “Snape was able to allow most of them to ‘accidentally’ escape, and they haven’t been seen since. But he was forced to turn Luna Lovegood over to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

The silence rang in Draco’s ears. He, more than anyone in the room, knew what it meant to be turned over to the Dark Lord’s anger. He closed his eyes, fighting the rising bile in his throat as he thought of Luna in her bottlecap necklace writhing under Cruciatus, forced to give up the names of her friends, forced to grovel until she broke. 

A chair scraped back, and Ginny spoke.

“We have to make a task force.”

No one said anything, and Draco knew they wouldn’t. How many people had You-Know-Who already captured, tortured, killed? They couldn’t have a task force for every new person who vanished. 

“Ginny,” Tonks said gently. 

“No,” Ginny cried. “Don’t use that tone. She’s one of us, Tonks.”

“We don’t know where she’s being held. She could be anywhere.”

“So we look for her! We use our intelligence! Shouldn’t Snape know—”

“Severus doesn’t know where You-Know-Who is keeping his prisoners,” Remus said heavily, cutting Ginny off. “No matter how much he might trust Severus, You-Know-Who knows he spends too much time at Hogwarts, around known dissenters.”

“We have other spies,” Ginny cried. “We can search—”

“We are searching,” Tonks said. “If we knew where You-Know-Who’s headquarters were, we would have done something about it already.”

Ginny gazed around the table, a frightening fervor in her eyes. When no one came to her defense, she kicked away her chair. “I’m going to find her with or without you.” She stormed out of the room in a blaze of red hair. 


	26. Another Way

Tonks sent Hermione to comfort Ginny and to make sure that she didn’t actually run away. Draco, meanwhile, sought out Harry, who hadn’t been at lunch. Draco found him in a chair by the window of an upstairs sitting room with a book he clearly wasn’t reading lying open in his lap. He stared at the wall, his face shuttered, chewing slightly on the tip of his thumb.

“Hello,” Draco said, taking a half step into the room. “Have you heard?”

“Hermione told me,” Harry said. He didn’t shift his eyes. 

“Ginny wants to go after her.”

“I know.” 

“I think...we might be able to.”

At that, Harry looked up. “What are you talking about?”

Draco crossed the room to the chair nearest Harry’s and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I...I might know how we could find where You-Know-Who keeps his prisoners.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “How?”

“Well...you probably know he used to keep people in the basement at Malfoy Manor.” Harry’s expression told Draco that he hadn’t known that. “The Manor’s abandoned now. The Order found it empty when they were searching for my parents. But there’s a possibility— it’s just a hunch. I only thought of it just now.”

“Tell me,” Harry said, an edge to his voice.

“There are only a few pureblood manors owned by Death Eaters that would have interested You-Know-Who,” Draco said. “My family’s home had the strongest wards, so he barely had to add any extra protections, and it has a symbolic value. Wizarding legacy and such. But there’s another manor in England that’s nearly as ancient and well-defended.”

“And you haven’t said anything about this to Tonks?”

“There isn’t anything to say,” Draco said. “Not— not yet.”

Harry got to his feet. “Can you please tell me what you’re talking about?”

“I believe he might be using Rowle Manor,” Draco said. “It's not worth launching an attack unless we're really certain, because it's nearly impenetrable. But there’s a way we could know for sure. If…” Draco swallowed, his throat going suddenly dry. He hadn’t brought this up before because he was afraid of Harry’s reaction. He knew enough about what had happened in the Department of Mysteries to steer clear of the subject. But he thought now was the time, if there ever was one, to cross that line. “You can see into his mind, can’t you?”

Harry glared down at Draco with such intensity that it took all Draco’s will not to look away. “Yes,” Harry said finally. “Sometimes.”

“I know you probably don’t like to talk about this.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But do you think…?”

“Do you think I could look into his mind and see if he’s holding Luna at Rowle Manor?”

“Well...yes.”

Harry turned away, his back to Draco. “I can’t control it. My...my scar hurts when it happens. When he’s very angry or something. But I only see what he sees in those moments.” He paused. “Dumbledore told me to avoid it as much as I could.”

“Have you been?”

Harry nodded. “Mostly.”

“I see.” Draco knew better than to push. He waited, watching the back of Harry’s neck, the tension in his shoulders. Harry turned and returned to his seat. He sank into it slowly, his eyes focused on an empty patch of carpet. 

“I’ve seen...flashes,” he said. “He’s been killing people. I’ll just see— a green light. Or hear someone scream. He’s angry so often now. You’d think with everything going his way he would be happier. But he’s…”

“Afraid,” Draco said grimly. “Paranoid.”

“I don’t like to see into his mind. I hate it.” He sighed. “I didn’t think it would help me, because he never talks about his horcruxes. But if I can use it for something, I will.” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s been hurting since yesterday. Just prickling.”

Draco waited, barely daring to breathe. 

“He’s been abroad. He might not even be in England.”

“You don’t have to—” Draco began, but Harry shook his head. 

“No. I’ll try.” 

Before Draco had time to react, Harry sank backwards in his chair, and closed his eyes. A moment later his whole body jerked, like he was fighting against restraints, and he let out a low moan. Draco half rose from his chair, ready to grab him if he fell, wanting to shake him out of whatever vision was making his face contort into that awful grimace of pain. It took all his willpower to hold himself back, to wait until Harry’s body fell slack and his eyes flickered open.

“Harry,” he gasped, reaching almost involuntarily for Harry’s hand. He diverted at the last moment and placed the hand on his arm instead.

“I’m okay,” Harry said, struggling into a sitting position and fixing his glasses, which had fallen askew. “He was...he was just talking. To Bellatrix.”

“Where were they?” Draco asked, his blood running cold at the sound of his aunt’s name.

“A dark room,” Harry said. “I couldn’t see much. It was big, kind of like Malfoy Manor.”

“What did—” Draco began, but he stopped when he registered what Harry said. “Hold on, how do you know what the Manor looks like?” 

Harry grimaced. “Visions. I’ve seen him there before.”

“Right.” The idea that Harry had seen into his house— had perhaps seen  _ him _ — deeply unsettled Draco. But he decided he’d rather not know any more about that. “Can you tell me more about the room?”

“There was a carpet. A fireplace. These...banners hanging from the ceiling. I couldn’t make out the colors too well, but they might have been Slytherin colors.”

“That could be any pureblood manor in England,” Draco sighed. “What were they talking about?”

Harry fidgeted slightly under Draco’s hand. “Me,” he said. “Finding me.”

Draco nodded. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to slip into the mind of someone who wanted you dead. He wondered if Harry felt You-Know-Who’s bloodlust as his own, and shuddered at the thought.

“I’ll keep trying,” Harry said, looking up at Draco for the first time since Draco had suggested seeing into Voldemort’s mind. 

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I do. It’s not so bad. And if I wait, I’m sure he’ll give up something.”

Draco nodded. He wanted to say something, to encourage Harry or thank him, but a lump had risen in his throat. He knew Harry wasn’t doing it for  _ him _ , but it felt as though he were. Draco owed Luna his life. Everyone in the Order cared about her, but Draco was the only one with a debt to repay. 

He tried to ignore the flutter of a thought forming in the back of his mind— the thought of who else the Dark Lord might be holding captive. The thought of two people he had been trying desperately to forget for the past several weeks.

His parents.

Draco’s first thought when he left Harry’s side was to find Ginny. But when he reached her room, Hermione stopped him at the door.

“I’ve given her Draught of Living Death,” she said, and bit her lip as though Draco might tell her off. “It wasn’t  _ completely _ against her will, but I do feel bad about it.”

“You shouldn’t,” Draco said heavily. “She’d get herself killed if she actually tried to go after Luna.”

Hermione swallowed visibly, and Draco noticed tears gathering in her brown eyes. 

“That doesn’t mean we’re not going to go after her,” he said. “We just need a proper plan.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Well. I suppose I better keep guard. I wouldn’t put it past Ginny to shake off the potion and sneak out. I put a Permanent Sticking Charm on her window.” She conjured a chair with her wand and sat, arms crossed. 

“Good luck,” Draco said. He wandered off, unsure what to do next. Whenever his mind was still for long enough, images of Luna came swimming to the fore. Luna, chained in a dungeon...Luna, whimpering like Draco's mother had while the Cruciatus wore off...Luna's body, limp on the flagstones while Death Eaters cackled...

He needed a distraction. What he really wanted to do was plan: find out where Luna was and how to get to her. But he had already done everything he could on that front, so he settled for the next best thing: planning to keep Harry Potter alive.

When he reached the Black Family Library, a lofty but dim room on the main floor, he found Kreacher muttering and wandering among the shelves. 

“...some of them isn’t all bad, some of them is kind to Kreacher, but some of them is so very awful, a disgrace to your memory…”

Normally, Draco kept as much distance between himself and the taciturn elf as was humanly possible. Kreacher’s mutterings were far too close to the sorts of things his father used to rant about over dinner when he’d had a bit too much wine. But Draco was too tired to bother, so he stepped into the library and cleared his throat loudly.

“Ah!” Kreacher cried, jumping at the sound. “Master Malfoy, it is an honor, sir.” The elf bowed low, his hairy ears dangling to the floor.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Draco said, making an effort not to slip into the imperious tone he had been so used to using with Dobby and the other house elves of Malfoy Manor. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Anything, Master Malfoy,” Kreacher said. He lifted his head, but remained in a sort of half bow, as if he thought it impolite to stand up straight in the presence of any member of the Black family, whatever their surname.

“I’m looking for books on horcruxes.” It occurred to Draco when he asked that Kreacher might actually know where to find books that Draco had been unable to uncover.

Kreacher’s beady eyes widened. “You is practicing dark magic, sir?”

“No,” Draco said quickly, then wondered if Kreacher would be more willing to help if he thought Draco  _ was _ practicing dark magic. “Well— I’m just doing a bit of research. Something...something that might honor Regulus’s memory.”

Kreacher straightened at once. “Of course, Master Malfoy! Follow me.” He took off down a row of books with a speed Draco hadn’t imagined him capable of. Draco hurried after, taking long strides to match the elf’s furious scramble. They went deep into the library, where the only light came from lanterns that floated at very irregular intervals over their heads. The shelves they passed were mostly in disarray; books were stacked at every angle, some with their spines facing and out and others their pages, and some entirely splayed open. Luckily, however, this was one of the few rooms that Harry and his companions had not reached in their losing battle to clean and de-evil the house, which meant that there was still a wealth of unsavory magical information, however untidily it was stored. 

When they reached the back wall, Kreacher began to pull books off the shelf seemingly at random. Those he couldn’t reach he summoned with a wave of his hand. He piled them on the floor beside him, and only stopped when the stack was taller than he was.

“There,” he said when he was finished, his chest heaving from the effort. “Every mention of a horcrux in the library.” He bowed once more, though this time it had the air of a performer concluding their magnum opus. Draco knelt down to examine the books. They were all leatherbound and clearly very old, with cracking spines and loose, yellowing pages. Some were ones he had found on his own, but others he had missed entirely. 

“You know this library very well,” he said, lifting the top book, which was no larger than his hand, and had been hidden behind a larger tome on the shelf before Kreacher pulled it out. 

“I is knowing every inch of this house, Master Malfoy.”

Draco thanked Kreacher profusely for his help, and Kreacher seemed to glow with pride. He bowed himself out of the library to give Draco space to read, and Draco carried his haul to a small table under one of the hovering lamps. 

Even directly under the lamp the light was bad, and Draco ended up using his wandlight too. He started with the small book at the top of the stack, leaning close to make out the medieval script and feeling grateful, for the first time in his life, that his parents had hired a tutor to teach him old and middle English. 

The texts were quite gruesome, and after half an hour Draco was feeling vaguely nauseous, not to mention developing a headache. He had found no new information yet, unless he counted more detailed descriptions of the agony of horcrux formation to be new information. (He did not). He was almost ready to give up and go see if Tonks had any odd jobs for him when his eye fell on a footnote at the bottom of the page he was reading. The text was so small he had to hold it an inch from his face to read it. 

“Be warned that such guarantees do not hold true for the abomination that is the living horcrux. In the body possessed of its own soul, thy soul shall be held in but fragile security, for the greater soul might conquer the weaker, know it truly, and possess it for its own.” 

Draco read the note three times before its meaning fully dawned. Harry was a living horcrux, a soul with a fragment of another soul lodged inside. And Draco had no doubt whose soul was greater. 

Draco raced up the stairs, the book clutched in one hand, its words echoing in his ear alongside his pounding heart. He barged into the sitting room where Harry had been before, but stumbled to a stop in the entryway. Harry wasn’t in the room. The two people who  _ were _ standing in the room flew apart, looking rumpled and highly embarrassed. Draco looked from Remus to Kingsley, and heat rose in his face as realization dawned.

“Er...sorry Professor— I mean— I was looking for...have you seen Harry? By any chance?”

“No,” Remus said, surreptitiously smoothing his tousled hair. “I believe he might be in his room.”

“I would suggest knocking,” Kingsley said dryly, and Draco mumbled a few more apologies before he hurried away. Despite the more pressing issues on his mind, Draco allowed himself a moment of triumph. He  _ knew _ Remus was gay. He had totally guessed it in his third year, though he hadn’t told anyone, lest they ask why he was so interested.

It was something more, too, that left a warm impression in Draco’s chest. Despite the horror that surrounded them all, there was enough life left in the world to make two grown men snog each other in a semi-public sitting room.

When he knocked on Harry’s door, it was Hermione who answered.

“Oh, Draco,” she said, opening the door. “Did you want something?”

“I thought you were guarding Ginny?” Draco asked, stepping into the room. Harry and Ron both sat on the bed, looking miserable.

“Mrs. Weasley’s taking a turn. She hasn’t woken up yet.”

“I see.” Draco considered offering to take a turn as guard, but it suddenly seemed like an intimate thing to do, and he wasn’t sure anyone thought him important enough to Ginny to allow it. 

“You can sit down if you like,” Hermione said, somewhat awkwardly, motioning to the bed. Draco felt Ron’s eyes on him.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Actually, I was hoping I could speak to you, Harry.”

Harry sat up a little straighter. “What is it?”

“Er…” Draco tried to ignore Ron’s steady gaze. “Could I speak to you alone?”

Beside him, Hermione stiffened. Both she and Ron looked to Harry, who nodded.

“Yeah. Sure.” 

“Hold on—” Ron began, but Hermione silenced him with a jerk of her head. 

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see if Charlie needs any help with dinner.” 

Ron looked like he would likelier leave Harry alone with a Hungarian Horntail than with Draco, but he got to his feet and followed Hermione out of the room. When the door had shut behind them, Harry leaned forward.

“What is it?” he asked again. Draco’s heart fluttered. 

“It’s about the horcruxes,” he said. “About you being a horcrux.”

He explained everything in a rush, drawing closer so he could show Harry the note in the book, and eventually sitting down on the bed beside him.

“Do you see what this means?” he finished, panting slightly. Harry had remained almost impassive throughout the explanation, frowning when Draco showed him the note but making no other sign that he understood how enormous this discovery was. 

Harry nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t want to ‘possess it for my own,’” he said. “This is Voldemort’s soul we’re talking about.”

“Well, yes, but if it’s a matter of living or dying…”

“It’s not just about living or dying,” Harry snapped, and Draco shrank back, surprised. “I have a piece of him in me. I can’t just...live like that.”

_ You have been all your life _ , Draco wanted to say, but he had enough life-preserving instinct not to. “We don’t entirely know what it means by ‘possess,’” he said. “It could mean make the fragment part of your own soul, but it could mean destroy it.”

“We don’t even know how.  _ If  _ it was something I wanted to do, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Draco couldn’t hold back any longer. “Why are you resisting this?” he cried. “I’m handing you the opportunity to avert your own death and you’re acting like it’s not even worth trying.”

Harry’s head jerked up. “Well sorry I’m so  _ ungrateful _ , I guess I just don’t like the idea of having Voldemort in my body.”

“I didn’t say— I just don’t know why you won’t even consider it.”

“Jesus, Draco, I— I didn’t say I wouldn’t think about it, but I feel like I have the right to have hesitations about this!” He was practically shouting now, and Draco knew he should back off and wait for Harry to calm down. But Harry’s obtuseness made his blood boil in an old, familiar way, and he couldn’t stop himself. He rose to his feet, barely aware that he was doing so. 

“It’s not about you having hesitations,” he said. “It’s about you giving up before you’ve even thought about it. It’s like you don’t want there to be another answer.”

“ _ Of course I want there to be another answer _ !” Harry exploded. He leapt to his feet as well, his face inches from Draco’s, his arms spread wide. “You think I  _ want _ Voldemort to kill me? You think I  _ want _ this to happen? Did you ever consider that maybe I’m afraid to think there’s some other choice? Afraid to get my hopes up and have it turn out not to work, and have to get used to the idea of dying all over again?” He stopped, his chest heaving, and Draco noticed that his eyes were glittering a bit too brightly.

“I...I’m sorry.” Draco was breathless too, unable to tear his eyes away from Harry’s. “Of course you’re afraid, I...I only wanted to help.” He took a faltering step backwards and Harry deflated, his arms falling down at his sides, his shoulders slumping. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I know,” he said. “I know.” He sank back down on the bed. He looked like he might say something more, but at that moment the door flew open with a bang, and Ron charged into the room.

“We heard shouting,” he said breathlessly. Hermione came scurrying in a few moments later, looking harried.

“Everything’s fine,” Harry said, getting abruptly to his feet. 

“But—”

Without another word, Harry pushed past Ron and Hermione and strode right out of the room. Ron rounded on Draco.

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, lifting his chin with just a measure of defiance. “I didn’t attack him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Ron,” Hermione said. “You know what Harry can be like.”

Ron turned on her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We get it, Ron, you’re a Gryffindor. You can calm down. I know he’s our friend, but that doesn’t mean we have to pretend he’s always right.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Draco said before he could stop himself. “Anyone would be a bit on edge.” He thought ruefully of the way he had treated Crabbe and Goyle the previous year. He certainly hadn’t borne up any better under that amount of stress. Rather worse, in fact.

Ron squinted at Draco with suspicion, but after a moment he seemed to decide to take him at his word.

“Yeah,” he said, blushing up to his ears. “Er, sorry mate. Guess I get a bit…”

“Protective?” Hermione supplied.

“I understand,” Draco said. “It’s an admirable trait. Slytherins are very loyal, you know.”

“So are Gryffindors,” Hermione said, loyally.

Draco smiled. “Truce, then?”

“Draco, you’re part of the Order. I think we’re past truces.” Hermione smiled. “Now which one of us is going to go find Harry?”

“I’ll go,” Draco said.

“Are you going to tell us what made him so angry?” Ron asked.

“You have to ask Harry,” Draco said. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s keeping something from us, isn’t he?” Hermione asked. 

Draco looked down at his feet, unsure how to answer.

“I know he is,” Hermione said. “You don’t have to say. Just...help him. If you can?”

“Of course,” Draco said, with far too much feeling. To cover it, he added, “He is our savior, after all.”

Just as Draco expected, Harry was out on the balcony again. He was bent over with his elbows on the railing, and Draco paused in the doorway, momentarily distracted by Harry’s jumper riding up at his waist, and the finger’s worth of smooth skin it revealed. He wanted so badly to walk up behind Harry and slip his arms around that waist, pull him close and whisper apologies in his ear. 

Instead, he stayed where he was, and cleared his throat.

“I may have overreacted,” Harry said without turning around. 

“I may have come on a bit strong,” Draco retaliated.

Harry’s shoulders began to shake, and Draco realized he was laughing. Hoping this was a sign he had been forgiven, he crossed the balcony and joined Harry at the railing, looking out over the meadow, tinged golden by the imaginary sunset.

“I hate it when I do that,” Harry said softly. “Explode like that.”

“I don’t,” Draco said. Harry frowned up at him. “It’s nice to know the Chosen One has his flaws.”

At that, Harry grinned. “Don’t go getting smug about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. Draco dared to lay his arms down on the railing, and set his chin on top of them so his face and Harry’s were at the same level, so they were seeing the gilded hills from the same angle. Their elbows brushed.

“So,” Harry said after a while. “How do we do it?”

“Do what?”

“Absorb a fragment of Voldemort’s soul.”

Draco glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye, and found that Harry was watching him. He glanced quickly away.

“Well, I suppose there might be a spell, though I’ve never heard of a soul-defeating charm or anything even remotely similar.”

“We could invent a spell,” Harry said, a smirk in his voice.

“I thought you’d learned your lesson with that.”

“Hey, I didn’t  _ invent _ it, I just recklessly  _ used _ it.” He paused. “And it all turned out quite well in the end, didn’t it?”

Something warm fluttered in Draco’s chest. He didn’t trust himself to answer.

“If there isn’t a spell,” he said, “I think you ought to try Legilimency.”

“What does that have to do with being a horcrux?”

“Well, it would be a variation on Legilimency, I suppose. The book said you have to know the soul fragment truly in order to possess it. You have to get inside the ‘mind’ of the soul, so to speak. Not Voldemort’s mind,” he said, sensing that Harry was about to argue. “The mind of that fragment. You have to be able to sense it and understand it. Own it.”

Harry shuddered so forcefully that Draco felt it where their arms touched. “I hate that idea.”

“I know,” Draco said. 

“And I’m rubbish at Occlumency. I don’t see why I’d be any better at Legilimency. It’s all too subtle and mind-gamy.” 

“They’re not really the same,” Draco said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with legilimency, but from what I know, they’re more like opposites. Occlumency is about building a fortress around your mind. It requires calm and control. Legilimency is about invading the fortresses of other people’s minds. It requires power and strong intention.”

“Not sure I have any of those things,” Harry said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. ‘Strong intention’ is just another word for being stubborn.”

“Hey.” Harry nudged Draco’s elbow with his own. Draco nudged Harry back, and found that he was grinning, ridiculously, helplessly. When he looked over, Harry was grinning too. 

Draco expected Harry to leave once they had agreed on their course of action, but he didn't. Instead, they both stayed side by side on the balcony as twilight spread across the grass and turned the world to shadows.

After a while, Draco's smile faded. In the rush of his success, he had almost managed to put his fears for Luna out of his mind. Now they crept back in, and he felt guilty for letting himself be distracted.

"I feel terrible," Harry murmured, breaking the silence.

"Why?"

"Because I'm the one who started Dumbledore's Army. If I hadn't done that, Luna never would have gotten the ridiculous idea to start it up again."

Draco sighed. "Harry--"

"No, I know," Harry cut in. "I know I would probably do the same thing in her position, and that I can't feel guilty every time someone decides to risk their life. I just feel like...I want to make it stop. It feels like I should be able to. If I just tried harder I could keep all these people from..." he trailed off, swiping a hand across his cheek.

Draco wanted to touch Harry so badly he had to grip the railing to stop himself. "It's not your fault," he said. He wanted to say more. There had to be more to say, but the words were beyond his reach. So instead, he said it again. "It's not your fault." 

Harry sniffed. He was silent for so long Draco thought he wasn't going to reply. But then-- 

"Thanks, Draco," he said quietly.

Draco's throat became mysteriously tight, and he was unable to respond. 


	27. Side Effects

**Harry**

Harry and Draco had both decided they wouldn’t go to Tonks with the information about Rowle Manor until Harry was able to confirm it, as they didn’t want to add yet another half-formed hunch onto the teetering pile of them Tonks was already trying to manage. So while the Order continued their increasingly fruitless horcrux hunt— they had little to go on besides Dumbledore’s suspicion that Nagini might contain a fragment of Voldemort’s soul— Harry buried himself in a very different sort of fight. He had thought it would be terrible, trying to perform legilimency on an evil soul shard trapped in his body, but, to his surprise, his lessons with Draco were quite bearable. Enjoyable, even.

They started working the morning after they received the news of Luna’s capture. Draco had promised to find them a private place to work, and he didn’t disappoint. He woke Harry early that morning with a sharp rap on the door, and led him, once he had dressed, to a tiny third floor parlor. When Harry stepped inside, he was greeted by a musty, animal smell and a chorus of soft hoots.

“Is this an  _ owlery _ ?” he asked, looking around at the spare, dusty room. His eyes fell on Hedwig, who was nestled happily in a little cubby on the far wall. “There you are,” he said, crossing the room to scratch her behind the head. She clacked her beak happily. “I was wondering why she stopped sleeping in her cage.”

When Harry glanced back, he saw that Draco was watching him closely, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked almost...shy.

“Hang on,” Harry said. “Did you set all this up? Is that what Tonks was going on about the other day, about you ‘improving our communications’?”

Draco nodded. “I hope you don’t mind my...er, alterations to your house.”

Harry laughed. “Since when have I given a fuck what happens to this house?” He looked back down at Hedwig, and the few other sleepy owls tucked into their little homes. “Seriously though,” he said. “I think it’s brilliant.”

“Well, it’s a good place to work, at any rate,” Draco said briskly. “No one ever comes up here during the day.”

“So,” Harry said. “How exactly do I do this whole legilimency thing?”

“Well,” Draco said. “I thought about that last night. You’ve never actually performed legilimency before—”

“Not intentionally,” Harry corrected. “I did use a Shield Charm on Snape once during an Occlumency lesson, and I saw into his head.” He grimaced at the memory.

“I don’t even want to know what that was like,” Draco said, smirking. “First ground rule then: no shield charms.”

“What do you mean? How would a soul fragment use a Shield Charm on me?”

“It’s much harder to try to see into the mind of an abstract soul fragment than a person. So I thought you could begin by practicing...well, practicing on me.” Draco couldn’t seem to meet Harry’s eye.

Harry made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Are you sure? You really think that’s a good idea?”

A crimson flush crept up Draco’s cheeks. “No, probably not. But who else are you going to practice on? Besides, I’ve been studying Occlumency since I was twelve. I’m not going to let you barge in without any restrictions.”

“How exactly is this going to work, then?”

“Come here, I’ll show you.” 

Harry closed the space between them with three strides, so they stood just a foot apart.

“Take out your wand,” Draco said, businesslike. Harry obeyed. “All right. Now, I’m going to hold a particular memory in my mind. I’ll close off the rest, but leave that memory undefended. Your goal is to access it.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “What if I can’t control it?”

“I don’t expect you can,” Draco said, the corner of his lip quirking up. “I’m prepared to feel as though a particularly clumsy bear is flailing about in my mind. But I assure you I’m a good enough Occlumens to withstand it.” 

“Don’t go blaming me if you can’t, though,” Harry said, grinning. “I’ve heard I’m difficult to resist.” He wasn’t sure what on earth motivated him to say it. Draco’s flush, which had begun to fade, returned full force. “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Right,” Draco said quickly. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Harry’s first three tries were about as successful as his first attempt at apparation. He raised his wand, focused his mind, spoke the incantation— and nothing happened. Draco refrained from taunting him, but his tiny, smug smile grew with each failed attempt, and it was simply infuriating. 

“Are you sure you’re not blocking all your memories?” Harry grumbled.

“Harry, it doesn’t matter if I’m blocking them or not. You haven’t even breached my mind. Remember: you must assert your will.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Harry closed his eyes, focusing on his intention.  _ It’s just Draco— you’re stronger than  _ Malfoy _ , aren’t you? Come on, don’t let him beat you _ . Without opening his eyes, Harry lifted his wand and said, “ _ Legilimens _ !” 

He heard a soft gasp, and a hazy image swam to the forefront of his mind. Blurs of green and yellow, darting here and there. A flash of something small and golden. The image sharpened slightly, and Harry realized that the blurs of color were Quidditch players, and the flash was the snitch. As he watched, a miniature Draco on a Nimbus 2001 stretched out a hand and snatched the little fluttering ball out of the air, a hard look of triumph on his face.

Harry opened his eyes, and the image faded. Draco was watching him, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

“I saw it,” Harry said. “It was you, catching the snitch.”

“Very good,” Draco said, lips curling into a smile.

“I notice you didn’t choose a memory of you beating  _ me _ to the snitch,” Harry said. “Oh wait— that’s right, it never happened.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t get cocky, Potter. You’ve still got a long way to go.”

“Oh, you’re back to calling me Potter now? Is that what you’re going to do any time I annoy you?”

“I reserve the right to call you Potter whenever I like,” Draco said, his gray eyes fixed on Harry. Something fizzed low in Harry’s stomach. “Now let’s go again. I’ve got a new memory.”

They practiced the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon. Again and again Harry probed Draco’s mind, searching for the memory left unguarded. He saw Draco brewing a potion in Snape’s dungeon, walking through a manicured garden that had to be at Malfoy Manor, and giving an oral presentation on animal transfiguration for McGonagall. In the latter memory, he finally managed to get sound as well as picture, and Draco’s high, first-year voice rang clear as a bell in his head, making him laugh.

“What?” Draco said, sounding anxious.

“Nothing, I just forgot what you sounded like when you were eleven. God you were tiny.”

“I was taller than you.”

Harry opened his eyes, and he couldn’t resist laughing again at the mixture of defiance and embarrassment on Draco’s face. He wanted a photograph of that expression, that rare vulnerability, the way the light from the windows illuminated the flecks in those dove gray eyes. The impulse surprised him, and he stopped laughing. 

“Er, go again?” he suggested. He knew they should stop soon; clearly he had spent too long shut up in a room with Draco. It was doing things to his head.

“Yes, I’m ready.” Draco closed his eyes, waiting, and Harry closed his too. He was getting better at this. The more determined he was, the more he honed his intention on the single point of  _ seeing into Draco’s mind _ , the sharper the images were. He had even begun to catch snippets of emotion— a flutter of nervousness during the oral presentation, a fierce competitive jab in the potions lesson.

“ _ Legilimens _ ,” Harry said, thinking of nothing but Draco, and a memory blossomed in his mind. A breeze ruffled the surface of the lake outside Hogwarts and billowed in the robes of a cluster of students laughing as they tossed bits of sandwiches into the water to tempt the Giant Squid. Draco strolled behind them, his hair tossing in the wind, Crabbe and Goyle at his side. 

_ Not much of a memory _ , Harry thought. He knew it was time to open his eyes, to let the image fade, but he clung to it a moment longer. He could sense there was more, just beyond his grasp. So much more. Without thinking, he reached for it. 

Something batted him away, and his mind jolted back, the memory disappearing instantly. A sharp pain blossomed behind his eyes.

“Ow,” he said, pressing a hand to his face. “What was that for?”

“You were pushing!” Draco cried. He was breathing heavily, and when Harry opened his eyes, he saw a mixture of fear and indignation on Draco’s face.

“I— I didn’t mean to,” Harry said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. “I just—”

“You pushed.” Draco sighed, and looked away. “It’s a good sign, actually, it means you’re getting better at it.”

“Right.” One of the owls hooted softly in the corner, and Harry realized he could hear the soft patter of rain on the roof. He hadn’t noticed when it started. “Do you think we should take a break?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I think you’ve made enough progress for today.”

They parted ways outside on the second floor. Harry, whose stomach had begun to growl as soon as they stopped practicing, headed downstairs for lunch while Draco headed back to his room. Even with his back turned, Harry was viscerally aware of Draco’s footsteps moving down the hall, and the creak of his door opening and closing. He made his own way down the stairs slowly, his mind in a fog. 

He went over the lesson in his mind while he ate, reliving each of Draco’s memories, and everything Draco had said to him. The person Draco had been before  _ iterum vivere _ would never have invited Harry to perform legilimency on him. The fact that he was letting Harry now made Harry’s stomach flop. He itched to do it again. 

Harry was so hungry and distracted, he ploughed straight through three bowls of stew without noticing. 

“Bit hungry, are you?” said Bill, whose presence Harry had completely forgotten. In fact, he had forgotten about everyone at the table. He had almost forgotten where he was. 

With a nervous laugh, Harry got up to clean his bowl and hurried out of the kitchen. He jogged up two flights of stairs towards his room, turned the corner, and ran straight into Draco coming the opposite direction. They both skidded to a halt just in time to keep from colliding head on. 

“Draco,” Harry blurted. He was breathing heavily. Draco’s hair, which had been combed to its usual perfection that morning, was ever so slightly mussed. There was a dash of color in his cheeks, and Harry found himself staring at the delicate arch of his lips.

“Harry,” Draco said, raising his eyebrows. “You in a hurry?”

“No, just...er...I was looking for…” He swallowed. “Ron. I was looking for Ron.”

“He’s in his task force meeting, isn’t he?” 

“Right,” Harry said. “Right, totally forgot. Of course.” He laughed a bit hysterically. 

“Okay,” Draco said slowly. He was beginning to look a little concerned. “Well, I’ll just be heading downstairs then.”

“Yes, right.” Harry moved aside so Draco could get past him. He did, shooting Harry one last worried look before he disappeared down the stairs. As soon as he was gone, Harry slumped against the wall, and banged his head against it a couple times for good measure. This was not good. It was very much not good at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy Harry's little crisis :) There are going to be a few pretty angsty chapters after this, but I promise this fic has a happy ending!! Thank you all for reading!


	28. Legilimency

After his embarrassing encounter on the stairs, Harry retreated to his room, where he alternated between flipping through an old issue of the Quibbler, not absorbing a word, and going over the list of possible horcruxes again and again, searching for some clue he had missed.

At some point his scar began to prickle, and he ignored it out of habit. But when it gave a particularly painful twinge, he remembered he was supposed to be allowing Voldemort’s thoughts in. Reluctantly, he lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes, steeling himself for what was to come.

_ “Are they secured?” Voldemort’s voice rang high and clear through the drafty room. He sat in a high-backed chair by the fire, staring into the crackling flames. From the darkness behind him, a voice responded. _

_ “Yes, my lord. We saw to it that there will be no more escape attempts.” The voice belonged to Wormtail. _

_ “Good.” Voldemort was far from satisfied. His rage bubbled just beneath the surface. Wormtail deserved to die for his incompetence; eventually he would. But for now Voldemort still had use for him. “No more mistakes, Wormtail. When we find their son, I want there to be no risk of his eluding us again. We must teach him what happens to those who defy me.” _

_ “Yes, my lord.” _

_ Voldemort turned his wand over in his hand, studying it as he had so often lately. A good wand, a powerful wand. But not the wand he needed. _

_ “One more thing, Wormtail,” he said. “Bring me Ollivander. I have more questions for him.” _

Harry jolted out of the vision with a start, his chest heaving. He clutched at the blankets, waiting for his heart to slow and for reality to return. A cold pit of dread settled in his stomach. He needed to find Draco. 

Harry found him in the drawing room with Ginny, playing wizard chess. Ginny was winning handily, but Draco didn’t seem to mind; he lounged back on the sofa, directing his pieces lazily with his wand.

“Knight to E3. No, E3 you utter— oh wait, that is E3. My apologies, carry on.”

Ginny’s bishop kicked Draco’s knight straight off the board.

“Hey,” Harry said, stepping into the room. “Can we talk?”

“Right now? I think my luck is just about to turn.”

“Oh yes, your luck is to blame,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes.

“It’s important.” Something in Harry’s voice must have gotten through to them, because both Ginny and Draco looked up from their game.

“Is everything okay?” Ginny asked.

“Yes, it’s— I saw into his mind again.”

Draco sat up straight, and Ginny went absolutely still.  The only thing that had kept Ginny from charging straight out of Grimmauld Place when she woke from her potion-induced sleep was Harry and Draco’s promise that they were working on a plan. They had told her about Harry’s visions, and Draco’s hunch. Ginny gave every appearance of having returned to her normal self, but Harry knew that her mind was truly occupied with nothing but finding a way to get Luna to safety.

"Did you--?" Draco began.

"I still don't know if he's at Rowle Manor or not," Harry said quickly. "He was in a room with a fireplace, that's all I could see. But he was talking. And...thinking things."

"What is it?" Draco asked, his voice laced with fear. "Just say it."

Harry looked down at his hands. "Actually-- Ginny, do you think I could talk to Draco alone for a second?"

Ginny's face darkened. "I have just as much right to hear this as he does."

"It's not about Luna," Harry said. "It's something else. Just-- please?"

Ginny glared at him for a moment, but when Harry didn't waver, she got up and stalked out of the room with an aggrieved sigh. As soon as she was gone, a vague, crackling tension fell over the room.

“I think he has your parents.” Harry forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes. They had gone flat with shock. “They’re alive,” Harry said. “They tried to escape, but they...were stopped.”

“I see.” Draco looked down. He moved his hands as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. They hovered for a moment, then clasped together under his chin.

“He has Ollivander, too,” Harry pressed on. “Like you said. I don’t know what he wants with him, but it seems like he’s been questioning him.”

Draco said nothing; he continued to stare down at the floor. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, but he saw his lashes tremble. Before he had a chance to properly think it through, Harry was crossing the room and sitting down at Draco’s side. He put his hands between his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if Draco was afraid because Voldemort had his parents, or relieved because his parents were still alive. Probably both. “But this means...when we go for Luna…”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Draco said softly.

“What?”

“When we find them.” His voice was steady, but when he took in a breath, it wavered. “My parents are his enemies now. His victims. But that doesn’t mean they’ve changed. And what happens if we find them, and they’re exactly the people they were before I…?”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t have a good answer. When he thought of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, mercy was farthest from his mind. The memory of Lucius’s sneer still sent ripples of hatred through him. But he knew that whoever the Malfoys were, they were parents to Draco. 

“I’ve always wished I knew my parents,” Harry said. “I can’t really imagine what it would be like to be on opposite sides of a war with them.”

“Neither can I,” Draco said softly. “I think some part of me has been relieved we haven’t found them.”

“We’ll keep them safe. We're not going to...”

“I know. But why? Because they're my parents? They've done as bad as Umbridge.” Draco took a deep breath, and let his hands fall. When he looked up, his eyes were dry, and his face perfectly composed. He was so near that Harry could see the faint, pale stubble on his chin. “Are you hungry? It should be supper soon.”

“Not really,” Harry said, dragging his eyes away from Draco’s lips. “Are you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Draco brushed a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes. “More practice, then?”

“Yeah. Might as well.” 

They walked upstairs together in silence. Harry listened to the shuffle of their footsteps and the creak of the stairs, and Draco breathing behind him. A strange calm settled over him. When they reached the owlery, Harry entered first, then held the door while Draco followed. He closed it gently, and leaned against it, facing Draco, who stood with his hands in the pockets of his robes, one hip jutting slightly out. Behind him, twilight blues filtered through the high windows, and dust drifted in the still air. A large barn owl perched on top of the cubbies fluttered his wings, then settled down with a soft hoot. 

“So,” Harry said, his heart so high in his throat he could barely speak. “What now?”

“Legilimency,” Draco said with a small smile, lingering on each syllable like the word was a sorbet. “You’re not bad at it, you know.”

“I almost got past your defenses.”

“Almost.” Draco swallowed visibly. “It might be worth trying to see into that soul fragment.”

“Yeah.” Harry stood up and reached for his wand. “How exactly do I do that?”

“You might want to try this sitting down.” Draco conjured a crimson armchair with a lazy sweep of his wand. Harry sat in it, noting as he did that it was upholstered entirely with velvet. Draco stood behind the chair, a presence Harry could feel. “It’s not like I’m an expert on this, but I would assume it’s like any other sort of legilimency. You need intention, but you also need an awareness of the mind into which you are trying to see.”

“I have an awareness of his mind, all right,” Harry muttered.

“Yes. Your ability to see his thoughts— it comes from the soul fragment, doesn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“If you focus on that connection, it might be a way in.”

“Okay.” Harry closed his eyes. “I’ll try.”

He had spent so much of the past few days delving into the part of him he usually tried hardest to avoid. That inexplicable connection with Voldemort, the place where Voldemort’s thoughts and desires became his own. His scar still prickled faintly with Voldemort’s displeasure and he focused on it, holding himself back so he didn’t disappear into another vision, but  _ feeling _ the connection. It was in him. A part of Voldemort was in him. He tried to picture it, and the image that swam into his mind was the horrible infant Wormtail held in his arms in the moments before Voldemort’s resurrection. A raw, helpless, pale, squirming thing. 

Harry lifted his wand, pointed it at his own chest, and murmured, “ _ Legilimens _ .” 

At first, nothing. Then, tendrils of cool magic moved through Harry, slithering under his skin and winding their way down his arms, up his legs, and deep beneath his ribs. He could hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears. Something jolted in his chest, and a second heartbeat began to pulse, out of sync with his own. A great, colorless cloud swam to the fore of Harry’s mind, swirling and dispersing. Shapes rose within it, nearly forming images before they vanished. Voices whispered in the emptiness. _Coward...they don't truly love you, coward...when the time comes, you will be alone..._

_That's not true_, Harry thought. But his own voice was weak compared to the swelling whispers. 

_Who could love a boy who runs and hides between better witches and wizards? Don't you know your destiny?_

Slowly the horrible, blank cloud began to grow, expanding among Harry’s own thoughts, blanketing them, stifling them. Harry tried to push it away, but found he had no control. He tried to open his mouth to banish the spell, but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. He struggled fruitlessly, noiselessly, as the endless nothingness devoured everything in its path. 

A light pressure fell on Harry’s leg, and all at once he had a leg again. His mind flew back into his body and he flailed outward, a jagged cry escaping from his throat. His arms hit something solid and he fell forward, reaching desperately for a handhold to drag him back to the world. His eyes flew open, and the horrible wave of nothing vanished. 

“Harry,” Draco said, his breath on Harry’s neck. Harry was half in the chair, half fallen into Draco, who knelt on the floor in front of him. Draco’s arms were around him, holding him up, and Harry’s hands were fisted in the front of Draco’s robes. “Harry, it’s okay. Come back.”

Slowly, Harry willed his hands to release Draco, and eased himself, with Draco’s help, into the chair. His head fell back and he stared up at the beams of the ceiling, taking deep, gasping breaths. Draco stood, straightening his robes, and looked down at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. The only sign of what he might be feeling was a tiny furrow between his eyebrows. 

“Sorry,” Harry croaked. 

“Don’t be silly,” Draco said. “What happened?”

“It worked.” Harry cleared his throat. “It worked. But...the soul’s mind…” He couldn’t bring himself to speak of the cloud. He wasn’t sure he even had the words for it.

“Did you see anything?”

Harry shook his head. “Just...emptiness.” He couldn't bring himself to admit to the things he heard. 

Draco gave a sharp little nod, and strode around behind Harry’s chair once more. “You might be the only wizard alive who knows what it’s like in the mind of a horcrux.”

“Good,” Harry said ruefully. He never wanted to try that ever again. But he knew he had to. 

“Do you want to stop?” Draco asked. 

“No,” Harry said, pushing himself up straighter. “No, I… let’s go again.”

So they went again. And again. And again. The second time, Harry escaped when his body hit the floor. He had flown out of the chair so violently that Draco, who had been prepared to catch him, couldn’t get to him in time. The third time, he abandoned the chair altogether and lay on the floor instead. 

“Hold my hand when I go under,” he said. Draco hesitated, but did as he was asked. When the empty cloud began to rise Harry focused on that pressure, a reminder that he had a body, that he existed, that the cloud could not obliterate him. It worked, at first. Then his hand began to go numb and he lost himself. He woke screaming, the sound muffled in Draco’s chest. 

The fourth time he was trembling before he even began. He cast the spell, and watched the blankness rise.  _ You can’t take me _ , he thought with as much power as he could muster.  _ I am not yours. You are mine. _ Shapes swirled in the mist, and Harry grasped at them, willing them to coalesce into images.  _ You are mine. You are in me. Show me _ . 

For a moment, it happened. A swirl of white became the edge of a cloak, moving through grass; a laugh sounded briefly, and cut off sharply. Harry reached, bidding the images closer— and it all dissolved into nothing once more. The whispers rose, and they said things Harry knew would be in his nightmares.

This time, when he opened his eyes, he was sobbing. He lay on the floor, his face inches from Draco’s knees. Draco crouched over him, an anguished expression on his face. When he saw that Harry’s eyes were opened, he pulled back, quickly rearranging his features into something distant. But his eyes remained stormy.

“I think we should stop,” he said. 

Harry took a shuddering breath and forced himself to sit up. His arms shook.

“No,” he said, his voice ragged. “Almost...almost saw something.”

Draco made a tiny, frustrated sound. “I admire determination as much as the next person, but there’s such a thing as going too far.”

“I...need to…”

“You need to rest,” Draco said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He got to his feet, and held out his hand to Harry. Harry contemplated it for a moment, his chest rising and falling in deep, cavernous breaths. Then he reached up and clasped Draco’s hand, letting Draco pull him to his feet. They stood for a moment, inches apart, hands gripped tightly between them. Harry was breathing hard, but he was surprised to see Draco’s chest rising and falling rapidly as well. His eyes darted over Harry’s face.

Harry dropped Draco’s hand and took a half step backwards.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “For...you know.”

“Of course,” Draco said. He glanced away, over his shoulder. “We missed supper.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Yes. Well. I suppose…?”

“Bed,” Harry said. “I feel like I was run over by the Hogwarts Express.”

Draco’s lip quirked. “Yes, I would imagine you do.”

The sun was already high in the sky and pouring in through Harry’s window when he finally dragged himself out of bed in the morning. His shoulders throbbed where they’d hit the floor, his arms and legs were stiff, and there was a sharp, pulsing pain just behind his left eye. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to get dressed, stumbling and muttering curses the whole time. He would have just stayed in bed, but he had a task force meeting at one, and he didn’t fancy facing Tonks’ wrath if he missed it. 

Harry opened the door to his bedroom, and gave a small yelp. Hermione was standing there, fist raised as if she’d been about to knock.

“Jesus, Hermione,” Harry said, rubbing at his eye as pain flared behind it.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, not sounding very sorry. She let her fist fall to her side. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Er...I guess.”

Hermione pushed past him into his room, and turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest. Recognizing a conversation he was not going to get out of, Harry sighed and closed the door again.

“What is it?”

“You’re keeping something from us. Ron and me. Don’t try to deny it, I know it’s true. And I know Draco knows about whatever it is. You two were holed up all day yesterday working on something.”

Harry swallowed. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. Did Hermione suspect…?

“I— I’m not going to ask you to tell me what it is,” Hermione said, though her frown suggested she very much wanted to. “I just wanted to remind you that we’re here, Harry. We’re— we’re always here, and if you’re in trouble, if you ever need help...we’re here.”

“I know,” Harry said gruffly. He felt guilty for assuming Hermione had come here to drag some secret out of him, and even worse for having slightly forgotten about her and Ron over the past few days. It had always been the three of them. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her everything— to tell her that he was destined to die, that he was trying everything in his power to avert that fate, but that some deep part of him didn’t believe any of it would work. That some deep part of him had been waiting for this since he was eleven years old. But the way Hermione was looking at him now, her whole face drawn up with worry, reminded him why he couldn’t tell her a thing. “You’ll understand later,” he said, knowing how unsatisfying of an answer it was.

Hermione gave a tiny nod. “Just promise you won’t be too reckless?”

“When have I ever been reckless?”

Hermione laughed weakly. “I’m serious.”

“I know. I promise.” He held out his arms, and Hermione fell into them, hugging him tightly around the middle. Harry tried not to wince; apparently, his ribs were a bit battered too.

As soon as Harry escaped his task force meeting, he tracked down Draco.

“Are you sure you want to continue right away?” Draco asked, looking Harry up and down in a way that made Harry suspect he looked as bad as he felt.

“Aren’t you the one who said this was so important? Better a few bruises now than…” he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. “Right?”

“Right,” Draco said. “Of course.”

They practiced for most of the afternoon, emerging only to scarf down their supper, and returned to the owlery once more. They practiced much of the next day, too, and the day after that. Harry knew that the rest of the Order had begun to notice their odd behavior. Tonks’ eyes followed them every time they left a room together, and Mrs. Weasley made a few offhand comments about how she missed spending time with Harry, he seemed so  _ busy _ lately. But Harry didn’t care, because they were making progress. 

By the afternoon of the third day, Harry saw images every time he delved into the fragment’s mind. There were snippets of voices and flashes of color, sometimes a face, sometimes a glimpse of scenery. Nothing coherent, but Draco had pointed out that perhaps this fragment had no coherent memories. It was, after all, only a very small piece of something much larger. 

“I can see things,” Harry said after one particularly successful attempt. “But I don’t feel like I  _ know _ it. How can I own it if I can’t get a hold on it?”

Draco frowned, leaning against the back of the armchair Harry no longer used, but that neither of them had vanished. 

“Perhaps it’s not memories you need,” he said. “When you destroy a horcrux, it speaks to you, right? It tries to save itself. That is when it reveals what it wants.”

“I don’t follow.”

“To know someone, you don’t just learn their memories,” Draco said. “You learn who they are. What they desire. That’s what drives a person, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded absently, his mind still snagged on the word “desire.” 

“There are multiple kinds of legilimency,” Draco went on. “The easiest is accessing memory. That’s what comes naturally when you first start using it. But you can learn to access other things.”

Harry took a step closer. “Other things like…?”

“Thoughts. Motivations. Desires.” Draco’s eyes flicked to Harry’s face and away. “Would you like to try?”

“I mean, yeah,” Harry said. “How exactly do I do that?”

Draco hesitated. “Practice on me.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really? You think that’s a good idea? I almost got through your defenses last time.”

“ _ Almost _ being the operative word,” Draco said, straightening. “Just see what you can do.” He met Harry’s gaze with his chin tilted up.

“Why?” Harry asked, trying to ignore the stuttering beat of his heart. 

“Because you shouldn’t try it for the first time on You-Know-Who’s soul, obviously.”

It didn’t answer Harry’s question, but the challenge in Draco’s eyes did. He wasn’t worried because he didn’t think Harry would succeed.

“All right,” Harry said. “But same as last time— no getting mad at me if I see something you don’t want me to.” 

“Deal.”

Harry took another step forward, and lifted his wand. “Are you  _ sure _ ?”

“Just do it already, Potter.” Draco smirked. “Remember to keep your intention focused, but delve _into_ the memory. Try to see beyond the surface.”

“Got it.” Harry closed his eyes, and spoke the incantation. Almost at once a memory surfaced: Draco climbing out of a reed-filled pond, water pouring off him, dressed only in swimming trunks. The sun was bright and cicada calls rang in the trees, but Draco’s face was grim, his body gaunt. Harry pushed, reaching for whatever was behind those shadowed gray eyes. 

It came to him easily, like tugging out a thread at the edge of a frayed shirt. He felt the hammer of Draco’s heart, the soreness in his muscles from a long swim, and the pit of anxiety gathered beneath his ribs that he had been hoping to dispel. He felt the chill of dread move across Draco’s skin as he thought of what the Dark Lord had asked of him. 

It was heady, Draco’s emotions dancing through his body, as physical and urgent as if they were his own. Harry knew it was time to stop— he had seen enough. But the little taste had made him hungry for more. He gathered his intention, gathered his strength, and  _ pushed. _

Where before only a single memory had reached him, there was now a flood. Images bombarded his mind: Draco running down an empty corridor, silver hair flying; Draco eating in the Great Hall; Draco in stiff dress robes at what appeared to be some sort of gala; Draco whisper-fighting with Blaise Zabini in an empty classroom. It was dizzying, extraordinary, but it wasn’t what Harry wanted. It wasn’t what he was meant to be practicing. Perhaps it was going too far— but Draco could shut him out any time. He re-focused his intention on the man standing just feet away from him now.  _ What do you want? _

The images slowed, and as they did, something stirred in Harry’s gut. A longing, achingly deep but equally unfamiliar. It was a chasm and Harry teetered on the edge of it, struggling not to tumble into it.  Desire ignited in him, unspooling through his body until he shivered, but it was tinged with a crumbling sense of impossibility. The images shifted once more, and Harry saw his own face lit by starlight, laughing on the balcony with the fictive meadow stretching out behind him…

Out of nowhere walls went up, and the vision vanished. Something wrenched out of Harry, and he grunted, stumbling backwards. He opened his eyes, and saw Draco standing across from him, hands on his knees, panting. 

“I—” Harry said. “Are you okay?” He took a step forward, hand outstretched, but Draco shied backwards. 

“I’m fine.” He stood, straightening his robes, but he wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye. Harry didn’t know what to say. As the shock wore off and the reality of what he saw began to settle in, he had a sudden urge to flee. He had gone too far. It felt like a violation— it was a violation. But his guilt was accompanied by a flash of anger; Draco had  _ told _ him to. Draco hadn’t stopped him. Or had he tried and been unable to?

“Draco,” Harry began, but Draco just shook his head. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s my fault. I didn’t think...but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.” He finally looked up, and Harry could see he was trying to draw his face into its usual mask of composure. It was breaking at the seams.

Harry opened his mouth. He had to say something. The words were there, somewhere, the right ones, but before he could get them out, Draco shook his head again.

“I’ll see you later.” He pushed past Harry and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

Harry wanted to go after him. He urged himself to move. But his head was spinning. He stumbled backwards and sank into the armchair. Only then did he realize he was shaking. Why had Draco let him in? Why had he told him to do it? Had he truly thought it impossible that Harry would get so far? Or had some part of him wanted Harry to get there, to see— to feel— all those things?

Closing his eyes, Harry recalled Draco’s memory of his own face. It wasn’t a totally faithful memory; it was far too perfect, brushed with golden light. It was just how Harry remembered those nights out on the balcony— unreal. 

And the longing, the desire that accompanied it. Half-formed possibilities flashed through Harry’s mind, all vague and tinged with terror. Suddenly dizzy, Harry buried his face in his hands. It was too bright in the owlery; his head was beginning to ache, a driving pain that began at his scar and rippled outwards.

His scar. Harry’s scar was hurting. He had been so lost in his own maddening thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed. The pain began to build, slicing through his worries about Draco and his own petty feelings; the realities of the war returned to him. Luna was in danger. The Order was striving to find two horcruxes, but one of them was right under their nose, living on stolen time. And Voldemort’s anger was slowly taking over his mind.

Harry leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the visions in.

_ He stood in the same large hall with the banners hanging from the ceiling. _

_ “Please, my lord,” a large blonde man said. He knelt at Voldemort’s feet, his hands raised in supplication. “I did not know...she has served this house since I was a child, I had no reason to suspect…” _

_ “You have disappointed me greatly, Rowle,” Voldemort said, toying with his wand. “You promised me this house would be more secure even than Malfoy Manor. And yet this is our prisoners’ third escape attempt. And they almost succeeded, with that elf’s assistance.” _

_ “I assure you, master, she will be punished…” _

_ “Yes, Rowle, I am certain she will. As will you.” He raised his wand in a great sweeping arc; Rowle cowered.  _

_ “Crucio!” _

Harry banged on Draco’s door, not caring who heard.

“I know you’re in there, I need to—”

The door swung inward so suddenly Harry almost toppled inside. Draco stood in the doorway, a mutinous expression on his face. But, Harry noticed with a flutter of apprehension, his eyes were rimmed with pink.

“What is it, Potter?”

“It’s Voldemort,” he said. “I saw him. You were right.”

The anger slid from Draco’s face. “You’re certain?”

Harry nodded. “It’s Rowle Manor. They’re at Rowle Manor.” 


	29. The Message in the Fire

Draco took approximately fourteen seconds to pull himself together. Harry was in his doorway, lips slightly parted, eyes bright and urgent. Just the sight of him sent daggers of shame and unbearable longing hurtling into Draco’s stomach. But there were more important things at stake.

He took a deep breath, and pushed everything else away.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“We have to go to Tonks,” Harry said. “Now that we know where Luna’s being kept, she’ll have to put together a task force.”

Draco nodded. “Let’s go, then.” 

It was nearly supper time, and Tonks was not in her office. Harry and Draco descended the stairs to the kitchen, where they found Mrs. Weasley and Kreacher hard at work preparing what looked like two full turkeys. Mrs. Weasley was humming a quiet tune, and Kreacher was bobbing his head along to the melody. Tonks sat at the table, for once not surrounded by piles of parchment or other Order members. She sipped from an enormous mug and waved her wand at a very lumpy yellow scarf knitting itself beside her. Draco glanced at Harry, and they made a beeline for her.

“Oh, hello,” Tonks said, looking up as they approached. “Molly said I’m too stressed and I have to take up something relaxing.” She glanced at her scarf. “I don’t think I have a talent for knitting.”

“Tonks,” Harry said. “We have to tell you something.”

Tonks’ eyes narrowed. She dropped her wand, and the knitting fell into a pile at their side. “Am I about to find out what you two have been working on so secretively?”

“Er, sort of,” Harry said. 

“We know where You-Know-Who is keeping Luna,” Draco cut in. Speaking the words out loud conjured an image of Luna bound and gagged in some awful basement, of the Dark Lord pacing beside her, toying with his wand in the way he did right before he tortured someone. His throat tightened. 

“How in the name of Merlin could you know that?” Tonks asked. “None of our informants have been able to determine where he keeps his prisoners, or where his headquarters are.”

“He’s at Rowle Manor,” Draco said. “I knew it was a possibility that he might move there, but I couldn’t be certain.”

Tonks got slowly to her feet. “You mean you had information that you didn’t disclose to me?”

“It was only a guess,” Draco murmured, dropping his gaze to the table.

“Everything we’ve accomplished started with a guess! All we have is guesses!”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Harry said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “I...I had a vision. I saw Voldemort at Rowle Manor, and he mentioned having prisoners there.”

Tonks rounded on Harry. “A  _ vision _ ?” She closed her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Are you telling me that you’ve still been having visions— that you have had access to Voldemort’s inner thoughts— and you haven’t shared a word of it with me?”

“It— it hasn’t been relevant,” Harry said, but he sounded a bit sheepish. “Look, what matters is that we have the information now. We can plan a rescue.”

Tonks opened her eyes, and looked from Harry to Draco with pure exhaustion on her face.

“Molly,” she said. “Can you give us the room?”

Draco glanced over at Mrs. Weasley, whose presence he had forgotten, and saw that she had frozen in the middle of seasoning one of the turkeys, pepper grinder in hand. She nodded and dropped the pepper grinder, bustling out of the room.

“You too, Kreacher,” Tonks said. There was a loud crack, and Kreacher vanished. Tonks turned back to Draco and Harry. “You have both been exceedingly reckless, and if I had even an ounce of energy to spare, I’d find some creative way to punish you, I promise.”

Draco swallowed. He had never been on the receiving end of Tonks’ ferocity before; it was an unsettling experience. 

“But if this information is true, it does change things.” Tonks sat down heavily, and gestured for Harry and Draco to do the same. Draco took the seat across from her, with Harry to his left. “If that snake is a horcrux, he’s bound to be keeping it at his headquarters. But it’s also bound to be almost impossible to get inside.”

“It is,” Draco said. “ _ Almost _ being the operative word.” He felt Harry stiffen beside him.

Tonks’s mouth twitched. “Well, I suppose with Harry’s visions and your insider knowledge, we might be able to cobble something together. Even with less than a quarter of the people and resources that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has.”

“Maybe we don’t need people or resources,” Draco said. “If Harry’s right, we might have an ally on the inside. Maybe all we need is a very good trap.”

Draco had never considered himself the sort of person who would offer himself up as bait, but here he was.

It was fully night now, and the newly-assembled Rowle Manor Task Force had dispersed after a long evening of planning. To Harry’s surprise (but to no one else’s), nearly the entire Order had volunteered for the task force, and Tonks had divided them into an advance guard, reinforcements, and back-up reinforcements according to their plan. It was a promising plan, if still a bit sketchy. Promising, but not quite good enough. It was missing one crucial element, one that Draco had cornered Tonks in her office to propose.

“I know we haven’t settled on who, exactly, we will allow to be captured to enter the manor,” Draco said, as Tonks shuffled through the papers on her desk. “But I think it would be most effective if it were someone You-Know-Who is specifically searching for. Someone he would not be able to resist.”

“If you’re about to suggest Harry,” Tonks said, “I’m going to kindly ask you to leave.”

“No,” Draco said. “I’m suggesting myself.”

Tonks paused in her search, looking up at Draco. “Why in the name of Merlin would you do that? He’ll kill you. He won’t hesitate.”

“He’ll want to draw it out,” Draco said, holding his voice carefully steady. “That should give me time to do what we need.”

Tonks frowned. “Are you certain, Draco? If you’re going to offer this, you need to be completely certain.”

“I am,” Draco said. He met her gaze, and didn’t blink. 

Tonks let out a long breath. “I can’t exactly say no.” She paused. “Thank you.”

Draco gave a twitch somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “I just have one request. Don’t tell Harry that it’s me.”

“You want me to keep part of the plan from him?”

“He’s already against the idea of bait unless it’s him,” Draco said. It had taken a half-hour long shouting match to convince him it would be a terrible idea to let You-Know-Who capture him, and another forty minutes for him to agree to allow someone else— preferably a highly trained and experienced Auror— to play the role. “Just tell him it’s Moody. He’s still going to kick up a fuss, but it will seem less...risky. I’m afraid my particular situation might irritate his highly delicate sense of honor.”

Tonks raised an eyebrow. “I guess that’s a fair assessment.” She sank down into her chair. “You should get some sleep, Draco.”

“So should you.”

“I will.” When Draco looked at her skeptically, she stood. “Fine, I’ll follow you upstairs.”

They walked together in silence, their steps heavy, and said a quiet goodnight before splitting off to their separate rooms.

Draco tried to sleep, but his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. He pictured Luna imprisoned, Luna tortured, Luna already… he heard You-Know-Who’s high laugh in his mind, saw his inhuman face stretched in that humorless grin of death. When he managed to hold those thoughts at bay, other things swam to the surface. Harry standing in the owlery, looking like he had been slapped, wand still half raised. 

_ Why did you do it, Draco? _ He had no answer for himself. The impulse had come out of nowhere, crackling with danger but so very tempting. He had told himself there was no way Harry would be so successful on his first try as to penetrate the desires Draco most wanted to keep hidden. But perhaps there was another part of him that wanted Harry to see, that wanted him there, inside him, at the core of his being. What was it about Harry that made him want to blast his walls to pieces and let everything come pouring out?

It was self-destructive, is what it was. As was offering himself up as bait for the Dark Lord. Maybe that was all it really meant to be noble— throwing yourself heedlessly into situations you had no right to survive. 

Draco rolled over, but he was already so tangled in his blankets he nearly strangled himself. Kicking them away, he sat up, planting his feet on the floor. He didn’t deserve Harry Potter. He didn’t deserve to be lying in this bed, alive and safe and warm, while Luna shivered in the dark, alone. Thrusting up the sleeve of his pajamas, Draco stared down at the mark emblazoned on his skin. It had twinged a few times since Draco’s betrayal, and one night he even woke to find it writhing, his whole arm burning with pain. Like Harry’s scar, it seethed with You-Know-Who’s rage. Unlike Harry’s scar, it was not the marking of an innocent victim.

Unable to bear the sight of it any longer, Draco pulled his sleeve back down, but he could still feel it there, like an infection. He stood up and shoved his feet into his slippers, then snuck out of his room and down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

There was no one there. When his heart sank, Draco realized some part of him had been hoping that Harry couldn’t sleep either. Someone had only just left; their mug was on the table, and the fire still burned low in the hearth. Draco had just put the water on for tea when a throat cleared behind him. He turned, expecting to see Tonks or Remus returning for their mug, but there was no one there.

“Hello?” Draco called softly.

“Excuse me, is there anyone there?”

The gruff voice was coming from the hearth, and when Draco crept closer, he saw a head floating among the flames. For a moment, he thought he was seeing a ghost. The tangled gray beard, the familiar wrinkled countenance— it was Dumbledore, speaking to him from beyond the grave. But then the apparition spoke again, and his gravelly voice broke the spell.

“You’re that Malfoy boy, aren’t you?”

“I— I am,” Draco said, kneeling down by the fire. “Are you—?”

“Aberforth Dumbledore,” the man said. “Look, my floo is likely being watched, so I have to make this quick.”

“Do you want me to get Tonks?”

“No time.” Aberforth’s eyes darted back into the flames, peering at something Draco couldn’t see. Then his hand reached out of the fire and dropped something into Draco’s lap. It was a scrap of paper, singed at the edges. “Needed to pass this message along. You be sure it gets where it needs to go.”

Draco nodded. “You’re the bartender of the Hog’s Head, aren’t you?”

“The very same. I’ve seen you ‘round. Heard a bit about you, too.” He frowned into his beard. “I’ve got to be going, but remember this: some of the greatest wizards, the ones we put on pedestals and call the wisest and the best, have made some grievous mistakes in their time. There’s a reason my brother showed you mercy. Take care you make something of it.”

Before Draco had a chance to respond, Aberforth twisted in the flames and vanished. His heart thudding in his ears, Draco fumbled to unfold the scrap of paper in his lap. There was a short note scribbled inside, the handwriting shaky and unfamiliar.

_ We’re in the Room of Requirement. There’s a passage to Hogsmeade. There’s fifteen of us. We’re ready to fight. Send word. _

It was signed “Neville Longbottom.”

Harry came to his bedroom door in only his pajama bottoms, hair a riot of half-smushed curls.

“Did I wake you?” Draco whispered, his eyes flicking down the length of Harry’s body and quickly away.

“Not really,” Harry said. “What is it?”

“Something— something important. It changes things a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Communication to win the war? Yes. Communication about feelings?? Absolutely not. Will they ever figure this out? Who knows...
> 
> I know this is a short chapter, but things are about to get real!! Not sure how many more chapters there will be but we are actually pretty close to the end!


	30. Rowle Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where things start to get kind of dark...I'm going to try not to end this set of chapters on too bad of a cliff hanger!
> 
> CW: some physical violence, magical torture (crucio)

Two days later, they left Grimmauld Place in the wee hours of the morning. The Advance Guard was small and young: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Harry, and Draco. A force that You-Know-Who could easily underestimate. The rest of the Order was catching what rest they could before they were needed, or pacing restlessly about the house. Draco wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to be leaving first.

Harry wore his invisibility cloak, and Ginny cast Disillusionment Charms over herself, Draco, Ron, and Hermione. It was a cool evening, and a light mist shrouded the other houses on the street, giving them a distant and ghostly aspect. 

“Is everyone in their pairs?” Hermione asked. Her voice came from somewhere close to Ron’s. The pairing off was Hermione’s idea, seeing as only two of their number were properly certified to apparate. Hermione would take Ron, Draco would take Ginny, and Harry would have to do his best to get himself there on his own. Hermione had offered to return for him, but he had refused, insisting that he was perfectly capable of apparating, he just hadn’t been old enough to take the test.

“Not yet,” Draco said. “Where are you, Ginny?” 

He felt a hand on his arm. “I’m here.” 

“How are you?” Draco asked in an undertone. Ginny didn’t respond for a moment.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I forgot you can’t see me shrug.”

“You’re okay, then?”

“Does it matter?” Her hand tightened slightly on Draco’s arm.

Draco placed his hand over Ginny’s. “I suppose not.” 

“Everyone ready?” Hermione called. “On my count. Three, two…”

Draco closed his eyes, pictured King’s Cross station in his mind, and turned on the spot. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing next to the barrier between platforms nine and ten, just under a flickering fluorescent light. The station was almost entirely deserted at this hour. Looking around, Draco saw a man in a sleeping bag tucked in a corner, and two or three scattered people waiting for a train two platforms down. 

Ginny dropped his arm. “Is anyone else here?” she whispered. 

“Ron and I are,” Hermione whispered back. There was a long silence. Then, a crack that made the people on the other platform glance lazily in their direction.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Anyone splinched?”

No one responded. “Good. I think the others are probably already through the barrier. Ron and I will go through first.”

One by one, they all crossed through the barrier and removed their Disillusionment Charms on the other side.

Draco wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the sight of Platform 9 ¾ completely devoid of life surprised him. He barely recognized it. There was no train on the tracks, no bustle of students with their trunks and owls, no tearful parents saying goodbye. It was dim, lit only by a handful of lanterns floating close to the ceiling.

“Hello?” Hermione called out to the empty platform. As soon as she spoke, a figure appeared halfway down the platform. He wore Hogwarts robes, but torn and tattered, and his sandy hair fell lank in his face. He took a few steps towards them, limping.

“It’s bloody good to see you,” Longbottom called, and whatever had been holding them all still and silent broke. Hermione ran towards Longbottom, and pulled him into one of her famous bone-crushing hugs. Draco didn’t miss the wince that crossed Longbottom’s face. “Hello, Hermione. Blimey, it feels like it’s been years.”

Hermione pulled back and examined Longbottom’s face. Now that he was closer, Draco saw the dark bruises around Neville’s eye, the cuts on his cheeks, and his split and swollen lip. He had been beaten, and it had been recent. “What happened?” Hermione cried.

Longbottom just shrugged. “The Carrows. I’m not half as bad as Dean, though. Speaking of.” He turned over his shoulder and called, “You can all come out now.”

There was a ripple of movement farther down the platform. Over a dozen people melted out of the shadows, casting aside their own Disillusionment charms. Draco recognized Thomas and Finnigan, the Ravenclaw Chang, both Patil sisters, and the obnoxious Gryffindor girl Ron had briefly dated. There were more, too, that he didn’t recognize. Every one of them looked much the worse for wear, sporting cuts fresh and old, yellowing bruises, and even, in the case of Thomas, an arm in a sling.

The platform broke out in a frenzy of embraces and shouted greetings. Hermione hugged everyone, and actually burst into tears when Brown, Ron’s ex, tried to apologize for the way they had bickered several months earlier. Harry was seized and pummeled by Thomas and Finnigan, who roared and cheered like he had just won the Quidditch World Cup. Then they turned to Ron, who flushed pink at the attention. Chang and Harry greeted each other in a much more reserved manner, and Draco felt a ridiculous twinge of jealousy.

He hung back from the crowd, watching as Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs reunited. There wasn’t a single Slytherin there— not that he had expected there to be. All of his friends had chosen the Inquisitorial Squad. To Draco’s surprise, Ginny hung back too.

“Aren’t they your friends?” he asked, sidling up beside her.

“Every one of my exes is on this platform right now,” she said gloomily. “Besides, when I was in the D.A. I mostly hung out with—” she broke off, but she didn’t need to say Luna’s name for Draco to know who she meant.

“Hey,” Longbottom said, limping towards them. “It’s good to see you Ginny.” He pulled her into an awkward, one-armed hug. Then he turned to Draco. “Aberforth said you’re the one who got our message.”

“I was,” Draco said stiffly. 

“Heard a lot of things from Aberforth. He said you’re working with the Order now.”

“I am,” Draco said. He knew he owed Longbottom an apology, but it stuck in his throat. What could he say that wouldn’t seem forced and far too little?

Longbottom stuck out his hand. Draco stared at it for a moment, wondering if Longbottom was demanding something back, perhaps his stolen Remembrall. “Shake it, you prat,” Longbottom said. “It’s a gesture of goodwill.”

Draco took Longbottom’s broad, calloused hand and shook it, gripping tight. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I was horrible to you.”

“With what you’re offering to do tonight, I think I might find it in me to forgive you.” Longbottom grinned, and Draco glanced around nervously to make sure Harry wasn’t close enough to have heard. They let go of each other’s hands, and Longbottom looked around them, at the empty platform with its soaring ceiling and silent tracks. “Brilliant, meeting here.”

“It was Harry’s idea,” Draco said. 

“It’s sort of symbolic, isn’t it?” 

Before Draco had a chance to ask what he meant, Longbottom turned back around to face the melee.

“All right everyone!” he shouted, and the entirety of Dumbledore’s Army fell silent at once. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us, so why don’t we gather up and hear what this lot has to tell us?”

It was Hermione who did most of the talking. Longbottom and his army had a vague idea of their plan. Ranbir, the Order member who was particularly good at tinkering with magical objects, had jury-rigged the Deluminator to communicate with the D.A. 

Now, with everyone crouched in a circle on the floor, Hermione laid out the details, or most of them. She very cleverly talked about the bait while avoiding mentioning who exactly it was. D.A. members asked questions as she went, and made little suggestions, and soon enough they were preparing to leave. 

“Seeing as Draco’s the only one who’s been to the Manor, he’ll have to sidealong us one by one,” Hermione said.

“I can sidealong two at a time,” Draco cut in. 

“Without splinching?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Neville said. “One at a time will take too long. It’ll have to be two.”

“We should go now,” Harry said. He laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and she smiled wanly.

“Yes. No point waiting around.”

They both turned to look at Draco, and every head on the platform followed suit. With all their eyes on him, Draco’s knees suddenly began to tremble. “Right,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Who wants to go first?”

He apparated them all to the windswept hillside two by two. Above them, the sky was a spread of stars glittering like ice chips. A chill breeze sent ribbons of mist prowling over the tossing grass. Below, the hulking manor rose, cloaked in blue shadow, its lonely tower silhouetted against the sky. When he arrived with his last pair, Draco shouldered his way to the front of the group.

“Disillusionment, everyone,” he said, pitching his voice to carry over the wind. As one the group raised their wands, and cloaked themselves in the shifting colors of their surroundings. The effect of them all together was like looking at heat waves in a desert. Draco stared at the empty hilltop for a moment, then turned back to the house. 

“Hermione?” He knew she was near, and, sure enough, her voice came close to his ear.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he murmured, holding out his wrists. He heard her murmur the enchantment, and ropes appeared out of thin air to bind his hands. The beaded bag appeared, floating in the air; Hermione had produced it from her pocket. Out of it came a bit of parchment that Hermione’s invisible hand fastened to his chest with a pin.

“Draco,” a voice murmured, so close to his ear that he jumped. It was Harry. Draco hadn’t noticed him sneaking closer under his cloak. “What are you doing?”

Draco turned towards Harry’s voice, imagining that their faces were close, nearly close enough to touch. He said nothing. 

“Draco,” Harry said again, his voice low and dangerous. “Please tell me you’re not about to do what I think you’re about to do. Draco smiled, a slow, sad thing. 

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll see you later.” He turned back to Hermione, who conjured a gag with another invisible wave of her wand. Then he disapparated before Harry had the chance to respond.

Draco and Tonks had debated for a long time how exactly to convince the Death Eaters that Draco was not laying an ambush. Draco knew it wouldn’t be easy, especially after they had duped Umbridge with the “capture” of Hermione. In the end, it was he that suggested the ruse.

“They think I’m a coward and a traitor,” he said. “Make them think I betrayed the Order, too. Make them think you left me for dead.”

“Won’t they be even more suspicious if they think we brought you there?” Tonks asked. “Then they’ll know we know the location of their headquarters.”

“Not if they don’t find me at the manor,” Draco said.

The moment he landed in Hogsmeade, a horrible screeching arose in the darkened street. Draco fell to his knees, partially on purpose and partially because his legs were trembling too hard to hold him. He waited, gasping through his gag, the caterwaul ricocheting in his head, unbearably loud.

A door swung open down the street, and three black robed figures in masks poured out into the night. 

“You two go back towards the castle. I’ll look here,” a gruff-voiced Death Eater cried. 

“Wait,” said another. “There’s someone out there on the road.”

All three swung to look at Draco. Three wands raised, pointed directly at him. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“Identify yourself,” one of the Death Eaters shouted. Draco made a muffled noise to show that he was gagged. 

“He’s tied up,” one of the Death Eaters said. Emboldened, they moved towards him as one, keeping their wands high. 

“What’s that on his robes?” one asked, just as the gruff-voiced Death Eater said,

“I know who that is.” 

With a start, Draco realized that he recognized the man’s voice. It was Featherhart, one of You-Know-Who’s lackeys who had shown up at Malfoy Manor occasionally to deliver some bit of news to the Dark Lord, or perform some menial task. He was a cruel man who once crucio-ed one of the Malfoy peacocks to see what sound it would make. 

“‘Traitor,’” one of the other Death Eaters said, reading aloud the note pinned to Draco’s chest.

“Right he is,” Featherhart said, a cold grin unfurling below his mask. He pushed Draco’s shoulder with his foot, and Draco toppled backwards, his head smacking against the cobblestones. Featherhart aimed a second kick at his head, and stars exploded across Draco’s vision, followed by a sharp crack of pain. He moaned. “Not so clever now, are you?”

Someone hauled Draco to his feet, and Featherhart hauled back and punched him in the gut. Draco doubled over, drool spilling over the gag, a horrible whimpering sound escaping from his throat.

“What are we gonna do with him?” one of the Death Eaters asked.

Featherhart laughed. “I think we better take him right to his master.”

They apparated back to the starlit, grassy fields outside of Rowle Manor, much closer to the house than Draco had been before. It took all of his willpower not to turn and look at the hillside behind him, where Dumbledore’s Army was waiting, watching him. He half collapsed, but Featherhart grabbed him by his collar, and dragged him painfully right up to the place where the air began to shimmer with wards. He lifted his wand, and cast a spurt of silver— a half-formed Patronus. It evaporated when it hit the wards, but apparently it was enough to alert the house’s inhabitants, because a figure appeared on the walkway, striding towards them. 

Draco recognized her swaying gait at once, and his blood ran cold. It was his aunt Bellatrix. When she came close enough to see Draco’s face in the starlight, a horrible, leering smile spread across her face.

“Well, well, well,” she said, her voice distorted by the wards between them. She waved her wand, and an opening appeared. Featherhart dragged Draco through it, the other two Death Eaters right behind them. Bellatrix leaned in, and dragged the tip of her wand down Draco’s cheek. “The little traitor boy, finally come home.”


	31. The House Elf's Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay another warning for physical and magical violence. I promise things will be less dire soon!!

_ Up on the hill, Hermione was urging Harry to be quiet. _

_ “I know you’re upset—” she whispered _

_ “Upset?” Harry knew his voice was rising, but he couldn’t stop it. “You kept this from me— you lied to me about the plan!” _

_ “He asked us not to tell you,” Ginny said, somewhere off to his left. “He thought you wouldn’t let him.” _

_ “Well of course I wouldn’t bloody let him!” Harry cried, as half a dozen voices shushed him. “He’s walking into a death trap!” _

_ “He signed up for this,” Ginny said. “It was his idea.” _

_ “AND YOU ALL LET HIM!” Harry had been planning to say more, but when he opened his mouth again, nothing came out. _

_ “Sorry, Harry,” Hermione said. “It’s just a silencing charm. We can’t have you giving up our position.” _

_ Harry tried once more to shout, failed, and began to stomp back and forth on the hill. After a minute, he felt a hand on his arm, and paused. _

_ “Harry,” Ginny murmured. “Sit still, won’t you? He’s going to be okay.” _

_ “I can’t,” Harry said, thinking that the words would vanish, but apparently Hermione had lifted her spell. His voice broke in the middle.  _

_ Three cloaked figures appeared at the bottom of the hill. There was a fourth, smaller figure among them, his pale hair gleaming. He wavered on his feet, and one of the cloaked figures dragged him up by his collar. He stumbled behind the Death Eaters as they moved towards the house. _

_ At the sight of Draco hunched and limp, Harry started forward. Ginny’s hand tightened on his arm.  _

_ “He’s okay,” she whispered. “Harry, you can’t go after him.” _

_ Harry wanted to throw off her grip, to shout at her, to go charging down the hillside. Couldn’t she see that he was hurt? It took every ounce of willpower to stay where he was, watching as Draco was dragged past the wards, then into the house, beyond Harry’s sight. Beyond Harry’s protection. _

They brought him to a high-ceilinged stone room bedecked with banners bearing the Rowle family crest. A fire crackled in the hearth at the far end of the hall, but the light and heat had very little reach; a chill came over Draco the moment he crossed the threshold. At the far end of the hall opposite the hearth was a long table, entirely empty but for the man who stood at its head, back to Draco. Except he wasn’t a man— not really. His pale, hairless skull and spidery, inhuman fingers gave him away.

A small whimper escaped Draco, and Bellatrix laughed. She shoved him forward, and his knees struck the flagstones hard. He bent forward, struggling to draw air. 

“My lord,” Bellatrix said, her voice dripping with reverence. “We have him.”

Voldemort turned slowly. Draco forced himself to look up, forced himself to meet those cruel, blood red eyes. The face was even more horrible than he remembered. The slits of Voldemort’s nostrils twitched, and his smile was filled with rage. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, his voice sibilant and high. “I have been looking for you.”

Overcome with sudden panic, Draco struggled against the ropes that bound his hands, nearly choking on the gag in his mouth. 

“They say you betrayed me,” Voldemort went on. “They say that when the time came to act, you were a coward.” He took a step towards Draco, his cloak dragging on the floor. When he stopped, the slithering, dragging sound did not. Nagini appeared from beneath the table, tongue flicking between her fangs. Draco froze. The snake wound her way about her master’s feet, hissing. “You know how I punish cowards and traitors, Draco,” Voldemort said. He stepped over Nagini, drawing closer, until his bare, bony feet were inches from Draco’s face. Bending low, the Dark Lord lifted Draco’s chin with one icy finger, forcing Draco to stare into the red, seething depths of his eyes. He tore Draco’s gag from his mouth. “You will wish you were dead,” he whispered. 

_ “Try to think of something else,” Hermione murmured. Harry crouched on the hill beneath his cloak, tapping his wand on his shoe. He couldn’t stop. _

_ “It’s been too long,” he whispered back. _

_ “It’s four minutes. Harry, you have to—” _

_ “What, calm down?” He struggled to keep his voice at a whisper. “How can I calm down when he’s— when he’s—” _

_ “Harry,” Hermione said. “I know you...care about him.” She paused. “The best thing you can do to help him is stay here and make sure the plan goes the way it’s meant to.” _

_ Harry had no retort for that. Out of nowhere, searing pain exploded from his scar. He cried out, grabbing his forehead.  _

_ “Harry? Harry, what is it?” _

_ “My scar,” he gasped. Rage bubbled inside him, rage that wasn’t his own, and a fresh wave of pain split his skull. His eyes rolled back, and he was standing in the stone hall he had seen twice before. _

“Are you ready to beg for mercy?” Voldemort hissed, kicking the limp body that lay at his feet. The boy’s face was streaked with tears, blood trickling from his nose. His body twitched with the after effects of the torturing curse, but when he looked up at Voldemort, he shook his head in a slow, jerky movement. Voldemort’s anger peaked and he slashed his wand through the air. “ _ Crucio!”  _

_ Harry sat bolt upright, gasping for air, momentarily confused to find himself outdoors. He heard murmured voices all around him. _

_ “Harry?” It was Hermione.  _

_ “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Flashes of what he had just seen flashed before his eyes. Draco, lying broken on the floor. “We have to...go after him,” he panted. “He’s being tortured.” _

_ “You saw into You-Know-Who’s head?” This time it was Ron who spoke, somewhere to Harry’s left.  _

_ “Yeah. He’s torturing him, we have to—” _ _   
_

_ “Harry,” Hermione said. “Harry, no. We have to wait.”  _

The minutes bled together into what could have been hours or days. Each time the pain subsided, Draco braced himself for the next wave. But each time it shattered every defense, and he writhed and screamed anew. There was no more pride. He wept and moaned and begged for it to end. 

And then, it did.

“Should I finish it, my lord?” Bellatrix asked, her voice hard as stone.

“No,” Voldemort said. “I am not finished with him. Bring him to his parents. Let them see what has become of their failure.”

Draco was vaguely aware of the ground moving beneath him, of being carried down dim hallways, his head lolling out of someone’s arms. Then he hit the ground hard, and wracking coughs seized his chest. The ground beneath him was cold, and he rested his aching head against it.

His vision faded, then returned. A faint light moved across the stone floor. There were hands, then a voice.

“Draco?”

It was little more than a whisper, but still Draco knew it. With the last of his strength he rolled onto his back, and stared up into the gaunt face and luminous eyes of Luna Lovegood. 

All at once he remembered why he was there, why he had submitted himself to Voldemort’s torture. 

“Luna,” he rasped. “For you. We’re here...for you.” 

"I know," she said softly. Her voice was calm as ever, but her grip on Draco's hand was bone-crushing.

Luna turned to look at something over her shoulder. “He’s alive,” she said. “Come see.”

There was a shuffle of movement, and two new people crept into Draco’s view. A strangled sob escaped him, and he reached out, his hand lifting barely an inch off the floor. Narcissa’s face crumpled, and she pushed Luna aside, kneeling beside Draco, pulling him into her arms. Lucius’s face drained of what little color it had. He tore the note from Draco’s chest and let his hand linger there, as if to be sure that Draco was real. 

_ I’m real _ , he thought.  _ I’m here. I’m alive. _

He wasn’t sure how long his mother held him, but when she finally let go, Draco pulled himself, inch by aching inch, into a sitting position. Everything hurt, but already the worst of the pain was fading. That was the thing about  _ crucio _ — it cut deeper than any knife, but the pain had no source. When the spell ceased, its effects could only linger so long. Of course, his stomach and head still throbbed from Featherhart’s attack, and his whole body was battered from being thrown about on stone floors, but that he could ignore. 

“I need your help,” he said to his parents. 

“Anything,” Narcissa whispered, brushing his hair out of his face. She kept touching him, as though afraid he would vanish if she didn’t hold him there. It split something open in Draco, seeing his parents thin and trembling, seeing their anguished relief. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t care. 

“I’m here with the Order,” he said. “To rescue Luna and Ollivander. And you, if…”

He didn’t need to speak the if. But Narcissa and Lucius didn’t hesitate. 

“What can we do?” Lucius asked, his voice hoarse. A tiny bubble of hope rose in Draco’s chest. 

“The house elf,” he said. “Where is she?”

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance. 

“I’ll get her,” Luna said, from where she crouched behind Draco’s parents. She got to her feet, swaying slightly. Draco noticed that she still wore her school robes; they hung far too loose. She moved slowly to the other side of the dungeon, beyond the circle of light from her lantern. Draco saw her silhouette crouching in the shadows. When she returned, she held a tiny figure in her arms. 

The house elf looked to be on the brink of death. Deep cuts scarred her tiny face, and her chest trembled on each wheezing breath. Her eyelids fluttered over her wide, brown eyes. Draco inched closer as Luna lay the elf on the ground beside him. 

“Her name is Falla,” Luna said. “She tried to help us escape.”

“How?” Draco asked, as the house elf let out a little moan.

“She found loopholes,” Narcissa said. “She couldn’t directly disobey Thorfinn, but she did things he hadn’t specifically forbidden, like giving us a lantern or extra food. She contacted another elf, outside the manor.”

“It was Dobby,” Lucius said, his eyes flicking to Draco. 

Draco swallowed as he thought of his family’s old elf. “He helped you?”

“He tried to. He had to disapparate when we were caught, but...he tried.” There was more beneath Narcissa’s words than in them. 

“Falla,” Draco said, leaning forward and wincing as pain sliced through his head. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Falla’s eyelids fluttered again, and her eyes focused on Draco. “F-Falla will be helping...if Falla is able.”

“I need to disable the wards around the house,” he said. “I have friends waiting to help us. But they can’t get in as long as there are wards.”

Ever so slowly, Falla shook her head. “It is...forbidden...to speak of.”

“You can’t defy Rowle?” Draco asked. “Even now?”

“It’s not that simple,” Luna said, resting a hand on Falla’s tiny shoulder. “Elves can go against their master’s wishes, even if they have to punish themselves after. But Rowle tied the wards up with the magic of the house, and Falla is the house’s guardian. The nature of her very being prevents her from giving up those secrets.”

“We’ve tried similar things,” Lucius said. “There is only so much she can do.”

What little hope had begun to grow in Draco faltered. Their entire plan rested on Falla’s assistance. Without a wand or any idea where to begin, there was little Draco could do to bring down the wards.

“Falla,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Is there anything we can do? Anything you can help us with?”

Falla took in a shuddering breath. “Free...me.”

“We’ve tried that too,” Narcissa said. “We haven’t yet found a way to get Rowle to give her an item of clothing.”

Draco pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to think. Falla was right; if she were freed, she could dismantle the wards herself, and apparate them all out of the Manor if she wished. A free elf was a powerful thing. But Draco wasn’t even entirely sure Rowle was in the house. His mother was right— there was no easy way to convince a man to hand clothes over to his elf short of an Imperius curse, which was very tricky to get right, required a wand, and might negate the act itself. 

“How did Harry free Dobby?” he asked. He remembered his father’s anger afterwards, but he had never heard exactly how it happened. 

“He tucked one of his socks into...that diary,” Lucius said. “I handed the diary to Dobby.”

“So it doesn’t have to be Rowle’s own clothing,” Draco muttered. His mind whirled, flicking through idea after useless idea. Then, something occurred to him. He lifted his head. “Can it be transfigured?”

_ Eventually Draco was gone, but Voldemort’s rage did not subside. Harry’s scar continued to burn, and he sank in and out of Voldemort’s mind. He saw Bellatrix, hovering and lavishing apologies for the disgrace that was her sister’s family; the Death Eaters who brought Draco in being sent away without reward; Nagini, coiling and uncoiling at Voldemort’s feet. _

_ Nagini. When Harry resurfaced on the hillside, the snake continued to coil in his mind. She was there, just as Harry had suspected. Possibly a horcrux. If Draco succeeded and the wards fell, they might accomplish more than a rescue.  _

_ But if Nagini were the sixth horcrux, she was also the last horcrux between Harry and death. He hadn’t succeeded in mastering the soul fragment lodged in his body. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps it had all been a daydream, a distraction from the naked truth: he had to die. A chill spread through Harry’s body. Perhaps he should die tonight. It would be simple— kill the snake, let himself be killed, and the world was free. There would be no more costly battles, no more lives at stake.  _

_ His heart began to race against the thought. He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t come here tonight prepared to die. There was so much he hadn’t done, so many people he hadn’t said goodbye to. He thought of Ron and Hermione and Ginny, crouched invisibly around him, completely oblivious to the destiny weighing down on him. He wanted more time with them— years, decades. He had always imagined them old together, in the far future when the war was won and they were at peace. He thought of Remus and Tonks, of the Weasleys, all waiting as reinforcements. He needed to see Remus one last time, to ask him all the things he’d never asked about Sirius, about his parents. He thought of his parents and his mother’s sacrifice. All of that, for him to die before he saw the world free of Voldemort?  _

_ He thought of Draco, and regret billowed up in him, threatening to choke him. Why hadn’t he gone after Draco that day in the owlery, told him that his love wasn’t hopeless? Because it wasn’t. What Harry felt— it was powerful enough claw its way out of his body, to devour him from the inside out. He loved Draco Malfoy. _

_ Draco believed in Harry. He believed Harry could survive this war. The idea of Draco living to see Voldemort’s demise and Harry not being there to tell him how incredibly foolish he had been, putting himself in such danger— it was more than he could bear. Who would keep Draco from getting too smug? _

_ Harry pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling for the connection between himself and Voldemort. It twinged angry and raw, threatening to pull his consciousness down into Rowle Manor, but Harry dug his free hand into the cool soil and held fast to his body.  _ You are mine _ , he thought, focusing with every fiber of his being on that connection. He drew up every half-formed memory the soul fragment had yielded, remembering the horrible blankness of its mind. This time, he knew, he had to push farther.  _

_ He pulled his wand out of the waistband of his jeans and pointed it at his own chest beneath the cloak. He whispered the incantation, one hand still rooted among the grass. _

The first thing they needed was a wand. Since the first escape attempt, Rowle had expressly forbidden Falla from taking any action that might in any way benefit You-Know-Who’s prisoners. She was far too weak to disobey, and couldn’t perform even the normally innocuous magic of turning Draco’s sock into something else. 

“They bring us food each morning,” Luna said. “If we could overpower Wormtail we could take his wand.”

Draco shook his head. “We can’t wait that long. We need someone to come down here sooner, and we need them to come down alone.”

“A disturbance,” Lucius suggested. “A small one. Wormtail sleeps at the top of the stairs. The Dark Lord is already displeased with his inability to keep us quiet. If he hears something suspicious, he will come to inspect it on his own. He won’t risk summoning help if he can avoid it.”

“We can smash this lantern,” Luna suggested, holding the light aloft.

Draco didn’t like the idea of losing their only light source, but if they managed to steal Wormtail’s wand, it wouldn’t matter anymore. “Yes,” he said. “I think that’s perfect.”

They took their positions. Draco and his parents crouched just within the doorway, as they had been imprisoned the least amount of time and had the most strength remaining. Luna took Ollivander and Falla into a far corner to hide, in the hopes that if the plan failed, they could maintain their innocence. When they were all ready, Draco lifted the lantern high and hurled it down on the stone floor. The light went out before it hit the ground, plunging the basement into darkness. The crash was enormous, and Draco feared even the long staircase and thick stone walls separating them from the front hall wouldn’t be enough to muffle the sound. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Just moments after the crash, there was a scuffle of footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of wheezing breath.

“I’m coming in,” Wormtail’s high, raspy voice said from the other side. “I’m armed, you better stand back.” A key rattled in the lock, and a chain drew back.

As soon as Wormtail stepped into the basement, they were upon him. Draco dove, throwing all of his weight against the much shorter man, and they both toppled to the ground, grappling for control. Every muscle in Draco’s body screamed and his head felt like it was going to burst open, but he held on for dear life. Someone else dropped at his side, and Wormtail’s clawing hands lost their grip on Draco. He heard his mother grunt with effort. There was a solid thunk, and Wormtail fell still. 

“He’s out,” Narcissa breathed. “Have you got his wand?”

“I do,” Lucius whispered. Draco felt forward, and his hand found someone’s arm. A moment later, Lucius pressed something thin and wooden into Draco’s hand. They had a wand.

“Did he touch his mark?” Narcissa asked. 

“I don’t think he had a chance,” Draco said, but if Wormtail had somehow managed to reach his Dark Mark with his silvery hand, faintly visible in the lightless basement, they would find out soon enough.

He got to his feet, detangling himself from Wormtail’s prone form, and cast  _ lumos _ . His mother crouched by Wormtail’s head, and his father at the unconscious man’s side. A smear of blood was visible on the stones where his mother had bashed their victim’s head; Draco couldn’t restrain a shudder at the sight of it. He turned away, and called Luna and Falla out of the shadows.

"You're going to need your strength," he said to Falla, curled in Luna's arms. "Luna, you're better at healing spells than I am."

Luna nodded and took Wormtail's wand in one hand, still holding Falla in her other arm. She moved the wand slowly over the elf's body, murmuring a string of healing words. Falla's eyes fluttered, and after a moment she lifted her head.

"I is feeling a little better."

"It's the best I can do with someone else's wand," Luna said. 

"It's wonderful," Draco said. "Thank you." 

He took the wand back and  pulled the sock he had removed earlier out of the pocket of his robes. It was one of his nicer socks, enchanted to never smell. A pity. With a few muttered enchantments it elongated and hardened, gaining a silver glint in the wandlight, until he held a silver-hilted dagger in his hand. He took care not to make the spells too complete: he had to change the sock’s appearance and function, but not its essential nature. In essence, he had to do a shoddy job— he could just hear McGonagall declaring it a “P” and telling him to start again.

“It looks lovely,” Luna said. 

“Yes. Well. Now for the hard part.”

They crept up the stairs as one. Ollivander, who was too weak to walk, remained in the dungeon with the promise they would return for him. Falla was rather weak, but they needed her, so Luna tore the hem off her school robes and fashioned a sort of sling to carry the elf across her chest. With her robe a few inches shorter, Draco could see that her socks didn’t match; one bore the Puddlemere United logo, and the other was striped. He wished he had thought to ask for one of her socks before he transfigured his own. She seemed far less likely to be bothered by having only half a pair.

They reached the landing where Wormtail’s quarters were located. The door was ajar, revealing a dank space not much larger than a closet, with a dirty mattress on the floor and a lamp still burning in one corner. Luna ducked inside to fetch the lamp, as Draco's _lumos_ was rather weak with a stolen wand, and they continued up the stairs. The trick was to find Rowle, and to find him alone. They had no hope of overpowering Bellatrix or You-Know-Who, not with only one wand. 

Narcissa led the way through the dark corridors of the Manor’s lower floors.

“I’ve been to enough parties here,” she said. “I ought to be able to find my way upstairs.” Indeed, her step never hesitated as she turned this way and that through the labyrinthine halls. Rowle Manor was worse even than Malfoy Manor. Draco found himself remembering a party at the Rowles’ years ago, when he was small enough to be pulled onto the lap of one great uncle or another, who frightened him with stories that the Manor had been built as a trap: “Once you sneak in, you’re not meant to get out again.” When he got older, he thought they were nothing but ghost tales; now, he wasn’t so sure.

Halfway up the stairs to the first floor at ground level, Narcissa froze, holding out a hand to stop the rest of them. Standing still, Draco heard the faint rise and fall of voices coming from somewhere above them. Motioning for everyone else to stay where they were, Narcissa crept the rest of the way up the stairs, and peered down the hall. She waved that it was safe to follow, and Draco began to move again, as quietly as he could. With every beat of his rapid pulse, a thousand bruises and cuts throbbed. He felt like a cobbled-together, walking wall of battered bones.

The next floor was brighter, lit by lanterns set into sconces along the wall. The hall that stretched off in either direction was floored with heavy red carpet that muffled their footsteps. Following Narcissa, they approached a closed door from behind which the voices were issuing. Leaning back against the wall, Draco strained to catch their words. 

“...possibility...I don’t believe…”

“Your sister...it’s best if...don’t you think?”

The first voice Draco recognized at once as Bellatrix. The second took longer to identify, but he was fairly certain it was Rowle. Draco waved to catch his mother’s attention, and motioned for everyone to follow him back down the hall. A safe distance from the room where Bellatrix was talking, he tried a doorknob, and found that it led into a dim and empty parlor. They all piled inside, and Draco shut the door.

“We have to get him alone,” he said as soon as the door clicked shut.

“How?” Narcissa asked. “Any diversion risks luring Thorfinn away as much as Bellatrix.”

“We can wait,” Lucius suggested. “They’re not likely to stay locked up in that room for long. If Bellatrix leaves, we corner Thorfinn there. If Thorfinn leaves, we follow.”

“And if they leave together?” Draco asked.

“We have no other option,” Narcissa said, and she was right. 

“Fine,” Draco said. “I’ll go listen at the door. I’ll send a Patronus when something changes.”

He cast yet another Disillusionment Charm over himself and left the parlor, returning to crouch outside the door where his aunt and Rowle were now arguing rather loudly.

“...an honor to have him here, in your ancestral home!” Bellatrix cried in the impassioned tone she reserved for speaking of You-Know-Who.

“I’m not ungrateful,” Rowle responded, somewhat stiffly. “I’m just saying, those prisoners are not the easiest to manage. And it all gets blamed on me, doesn’t it? Even when it’s that bloody fool Wormtail’s fault.”

Bellatrix cackled. “Only a coward blames a weak man for his failure. Are you scared, little Thorfinn? Don’t think you can live up to the trust he has placed in you?”

In the hall, Draco shuddered. He felt an acute pang of empathy for Rowle; as little as he respected the man, he had been on the receiving end of a very similar diatribe. He had once harbored very similar doubts. He wondered, fleetingly, if all that separated him from a man like that was the luck of a miscast spell. But he couldn’t let those thoughts linger. He had a job to do.

Rowle seemed to have no response for Bellatrix’s accusations. After a moment of silence, Bellatrix spoke again, her tone shifting.

“Ah, he summons me now. Rest easy,  _ Rowle _ .” She spat his surname as a curse. “I won’t inform him of your...doubts. Unless he asks, of course.”

Draco barely had time to scramble back from the door before it burst open, banging against the wall. Bellatrix strode out of the room and straight past the place where Draco crouched, invisible, her crimson-lined cloak rippling behind her on the blood-colored carpet. She disappeared around a corner, a cruel smile lingering on her face. From inside the room she had left, Draco thought he heard the faint sound of a grown man crying.

“ _ Expecto Patronum _ ,” Draco murmured, lifting Wormtail’s wand. Unlike Draco’s wand, this one was short and crudely made— probably extorted out of the wandmaker in the basement. It resisted Draco’s mastery, and the only Patronus he managed to conjure was a formless ball of silver light. It would have to do. He sent it soaring to the parlor where his parents and Luna hid. Then, afraid Rowle would get it in his head to leave, Draco slipped into the room.

It was much larger than the parlor down the hall, and outfitted as an office. A wide, arched window looked out over what must have been a commanding view of the grounds when not opaque with darkness. Before the window was an elegant desk of dark, polished wood, scattered with papers and other debris: a rusted ring of keys, an open box of potion ingredients, a plate with a half-eaten orange on it. Rowle sat in the desk’s throne-like chair, his blonde head bowed, whimpering and snuffling into his hands. He was a large, burly man, but he seemed to have shrunk since Draco saw him last. Draco had the sudden impulse to cast aside his Disillusionment and entreat Rowle to help them, to offer him mercy as Dumbledore had. But some part of him knew that what plagued Rowle now was not genuine remorse; it was fear for his own life and limb. Rowle was young enough to have been a child the last time You-Know-Who commanded power, but he was a child no longer, and Draco knew just how deep his vitriol for Muggles went. 

Some part of Draco knew that this same fact applied to his parents. Whatever they did now to help Draco and the Order, they did because fear had finally overpowered loyalty in their hearts. When all this was over, Draco would have to face this. But for now, he let himself ignore it. As tense as these short hours were, he wanted to savor the feeling of his parents fighting at his side for as long as it lasted.

There was a soft thump outside the door, and Rowle’s head jerked up. He swiped a hand across his swollen eyes. Draco heard a faint wheezing, and Falla limped into the room, the silver dagger clutched in her tiny fist. Her whole body strained with every step, as though she were fighting against invisible bonds, and her chest stuttered beneath the dish towel she wore as a tunic.

Rowle leapt to his feet. “What in the name of—? How—?”

“Master— has— been— _ bad _ ,” Falla squeaked, each word laden with effort. “Master— is not— deserving— of being—  _ Master _ !”

Rowle’s pasty face flushed and contorted with rage. He knocked Falla aside with a casual kick that sent her flying into a cabinet on the opposite wall. Draco flinched, raising Wormtail’s wand. He had to time this precisely. 

Rowle knelt beside his prone elf and prised the knife from her hands. He turned it over thoughtfully, examining the hilt. “Don’t know where you got this.” 

Draco’s heart clenched, but Rowle merely shrugged. “I tried to spare you, Falla. I was merciful. You served our family well for years. But your ingratitude has gone too far.” He lifted the knife. Beneath him, Falla twitched, her eyes barely fluttering as she braced herself for death. Draco held himself perfectly still; it wasn’t time, not yet. He was breathing so hard he was surprised Rowle hadn’t heard him. 

“Let the Dark Lord doubt my loyalty now.” Rowle raised the knife yet higher, and plunged down with cold determination. 

“ _ Indumentis verto _ !” Draco cried, no longer caring if he was discovered. Time seemed to slow. The dagger had just reached Falla’s chest, was about to plunge into her tiny, frail body. In the instant before it did, it wobbled and shed its gleaming guise. It was a sock that landed. 

The blow was still hard enough to knock the breath from Falla’s lungs and her body jerked as she gasped. But even as confusion registered on Rowle’s face, her arms flew up and grasped the sock, willingly delivered. 

Peace and triumph passed over her face. She struggled upright, and her shoulders, which had once curved inward, were straight, as if a great weight had been lifted from them. 

Rowle fumbled for his wand, confusion turning to terror. “Who’s there?” he cried. “Show yourself!”

But it was too late. Draco stunned Rowle with a cursory flick of his wand, then shed his invisibility. He knelt at Falla’s side.

“Are you okay?”

“Falla has never felt better,” she said, smiling weakly. She was still badly injured: she swayed gently on her feet, and each breath wheezed in her lungs. But a new light gleamed in her green eyes. “Now come. It is time to make the wards fall.”

“Wait,” Luna said from the doorway. She strode into the room and crouched down beside Draco, pulling Falla into a gentle embrace. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very brave. I will want to arrange an interview with you for the  _ Quibbler _ later, if you’ll let me.”

Falla looked hesitant. Draco wondered if the  _ Quibbler _ ’s reputation was known even among house elves. “We shall see,” she said. Already, there was much less subservience in her tone.

Luna got to her feet and began to poke around the room, shuffling through the items on the desk and opening drawers.

“Luna,” Draco said. “We should probably—”

“Aha!” Luna reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a handful of wands. “I thought he might be keeping them here.”

Draco recognized his own hawthorn wand at once, as well as his mother’s made of walnut. His father’s wand was not among the bunch, but that did not surprise Draco. Lucius had been stripped of his wand and standing long before he became a prisoner.

Luna distributed the wands quickly, tucking her own behind her ear and giving an extra— presumably Ollivander’s— to Lucius. 

“Now,” she said. “I think we’re ready.”


	32. The Advance Guard

Falla led them deep into the heart of the manor. They didn’t go up or down stairs, but they snuck down endless corridors that seemed to branch off in every direction. Sometimes it felt as if they were going in circles; Draco could have sworn they passed the same tarnished mirror three times. But eventually they came to a small wooden door set into the wall, awkwardly placed between two other doors. It was unadorned, and Draco had to duck to enter. Within was a plain room, lit by a single lantern, its wooden floor and walls free of furniture or decoration. It was quite cramped with four full-grown humans inside. For the heart of such a sinister house, Draco thought, it was surprisingly warm. 

Falla limped to the center of the room and knelt, laying her hands flat on the floorboards. At once, the grain of the wood began to swirl in dizzying patterns that moved out from her hands like ripples, spreading across the floor and then the walls, until the whole room was alive. Draco could all but feel it breathe. 

“She is glad to see Falla,” Falla said softly.

“She has a lovely heart,” Luna said, her eyes falling closed. “It’s sad, what they’ve done to her.”

“Falla will ask her to do something she has never done before,” Falla said. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the dancing wood grain. The floor beneath them rumbled gently, and Draco reached for the wall to steady himself. It was hot to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. Above them, the lantern swung, casting distorted shadows over Falla’s body prostrated on the floor. 

Falla raised her head, and the swirling stopped. The wood became wood again. When Falla got to her feet, Draco realized that all her cuts and bruises were gone, and she stood steadily, her chin held high. The house had healed her.

“The wards are gone,” she said. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows. You must be acting quickly.” 

Draco nodded. His heart pounding so hard in his throat it threatened to choke him, he lifted his own wand.

“ _ Expecto Patronum _ !” 

_ The images flooded Harry’s mind, sharper than they had ever been. Masked, hooded figures laughing around a fire. Pacing before the Room of Requirement, venom in his heart. Dumbledore’s auburn-bearded face, infuriatingly calm. A cluttered shop, empty of customers. A pretty woman casting a salamander patronus. A dead man in Muggle clothes lying in a misty garden, frost climbing over his stunned features.  _

You can’t distract me _ , Harry thought.  _ This isn’t you. Tell me what you want.  _ He pushed forward, even as every instinct begged him to withdraw. The creeping blankness threatened, but he brushed it aside like mist.  _ What do you want?

_ A tremulous feeling rose in his gut, creeping upwards like a tendril of a vine. When Harry reached for it, however, something raw and bloody and violent tore through him and he pulled back in revulsion. It felt like the fetal Voldemort had looked, before he was dropped in the cauldron— utterly wrong.  _

_ But Harry had to know it. There was no other way. He focused on the feeling before it could slither away, forcing himself to confront its slick, writhing countenance. Like worms in his body, like teeth sinking into living flesh, like a mortal wound—  _

_ — and beneath it, within it, a great gaping maw of terror _ .

You’re afraid,  _ Harry thought, and the thing inside him howled. _

_ “Harry!”  _

_ The voice jolted him out of his own mind and sent him hurtling back to the hillside where Hermione, still invisible, was urgently shaking him. _

_ “What?” he cried, anger surging to the surface. He had been so close.  _

_ “Look!”  _

_ He blinked, redirecting his gaze down the hill to the mostly dark Manor. As he watched, lights came on in several windows. Nothing looked too terribly different, except—  _

_ A Patronus cantered over the roof of the Manor, gliding down to the garden and bounding its way towards them up the hill. Harry’s heart skipped. It wasn’t just any Patronus. It was  _ his  _ Patronus.  _

_ It was like watching a man wearing his face stride towards him on the street. He reached, unthinking, for Hermione, and she clutched his hand.  _

_ “How—?” he breathed. He could tell the moment Hermione realized what his own mind was struggling to comprehend. Her breath hitched, and her grip tightened. Before she could speak, the Patronus reached them, stopping just shy of Harry’s knees.  _

_ It spoke with Draco’s voice. _

**Draco**

It was like watching the wall of a fortress come tumbling down. Draco, his parents, Falla, and Luna reached the main hall just as the towering oak doors were blasted open, and Dumbledore’s Army came charging through. You-Know-Who was no longer there, and the trio of Death Eater guards, taken utterly by surprise, didn’t stand a chance. Two were stunned instantly and the third fell backward, howling as he succumbed to one of Ginny’s bat bogey hexes. It was over before it began. 

Draco’s eyes skimmed over the small army, passing over Ginny, who hurled a stunning spell after her hex; Ron and Hermione who scanned the room with their wands raised; Dean Thomas un-petrifying Lavender Brown, who had caught the only spell any of the Death Eaters had managed to cast. And then he saw him, standing off to one side, face ashen and clothes smeared with mud and grass stains. Before Draco knew what he was doing, he stumbled forward, half-running. Everything else faded to a blur as Harry looked up and met Draco’s eyes. 

They collided into something that was almost an embrace, Draco clasping Harry’s arms, his elbows, anything he could reach, Harry falling forward so their foreheads nearly touched. 

“God, you’re alive,” Harry murmured, the words sounding as though they were wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. Draco couldn’t speak. He just held on as tightly as he could, never wanting to let Harry out of arm’s reach again. It didn’t matter, for the moment, whether Harry loved him. It only mattered that he was here, breathing, his arms warm in Draco’s hands.

A cry interrupted their greeting, and Draco turned in time to see Ginny throw herself at Luna. They held each other for a long, aching moment, Ginny’s head buried in Luna’s neck, her shoulders shaking. Draco had never seen her cry before, and something in him twisted painfully as the girls kissed. Behind them, Draco’s parents hung back, eyes cast to the floor. They knew what was coming, as soon as this was over.

“All right,” Harry shouted, pulling away from Draco. Draco missed his touch instantly with a throb like an old wound. “Everyone! He knows we’re here. There’ll be more Death Eaters any second. We have to get the prisoners out. Ginny, you and Luna—”

Before he could finish his instruction, a crack like thunder split the hall, and a phalanx of Death Eaters appeared between Dumbledore’s Army and the door. There was an instant of silence, and then the barrage began. You-Know-Who had summoned his army.

“Get to cover!” Harry shouted, grabbing Draco and hauling his head down, dragging him away from the spells now flying at them. Green light whizzed past Draco’s head, ruffling his hair, and he cast a stunner over his shoulder in return, hoping it wouldn’t hit any of their own. Around them, Dumbledore’s Army scattered. Some raised their wands to duel as others fled for the doorway that led deeper into the house. Draco saw Neville fall in a flash of red— thankfully, not green— and Parvati stopped to restore him, dragging him to his feet. Draco’s parents were nowhere to be seen— they had been the first to flee. 

The Death Eaters were advancing in long rows. Almost none of them had fallen. Draco let himself be dragged out into the corridor, then down another corridor to the left. This one was empty except for a few other Army members, running ahead of them in the same direction. Harry and Draco’s footsteps echoed loudly on the stone.

“Should we call the reinforcements?” Draco asked, breathless.

“Not yet,” Harry panted, pulling Draco down yet another side passage and skidding to a halt. “We need them to think they’ve won.”

There were footsteps in the corridor they had come from. Draco turned to run again, but it was Ron who came sprinting around the corner, Hermione and Padma Patil right behind him. 

“Harry,” Ron cried, slowing down. “Thought we’d lost you.” Harry reached for his friends, pulling them close. 

“Look,” he said. “The snake is here. In the house. So is Voldemort. Our first priority is to get the prisoners out, and get everything ready for the next part of the plan. But if you see the snake…”

“Kill it,” Ron said.

“We don’t have the sword,” Draco said. “We left it with Tonks.”

Hermione smiled. “Of course we do.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her beaded bag.

Draco flung his arms around her. It surprised him as much as it did Hermione; she let out a little squeak and almost dropped the bag. Draco pulled away quickly, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re a genius.”

Hermione looked pleased with herself. 

“Okay,” Harry said. “We haven’t got a lot of time. We should split up. If any of you want to leave—”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Padma said. 

Harry frowned, but he seemed to realize it was pointless to argue. “Fine. Who’s going to look for the prisoners?”

“Ollivander’s in the basement,” Draco said. “I don’t know where my parents are.” 

“Hermione and I can go get Ollivander,” Ron said, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “How do we get him out, though?”

“Ron, the wards are down,” Hermione said. “We can apparate.”

“Oh. Right.” 

“Just find the stairs,” Draco said. “And go down as far as you can. And leave the bag,” he added, as they made to run back the way they had come. Hermione tossed it to him— it clanked when he caught it. 

“Be careful,” Harry urged, and they both nodded grimly before they hurried away. Harry watched them go, then turned to Draco and Padma. “Come on, we should keep moving.”

They went in the opposite direction from Ron and Hermione, deeper into the house. They heard shouting and footsteps farther down, and when their passage joined a larger corridor, they saw Neville and Luna locked in a duel with a Death Eater who was shooting curses in every direction, blasting holes in the walls and shattering chandeliers. 

Draco raised his wand, but Padma had already stunned the Death Eater from behind. She stalked up to him and yanked off his mask, revealing a gaunt-faced man Draco didn’t recognize. Padma spit on him. 

“Thanks,” Neville said, panting. Beside him, Luna stuck her wand back behind her ear. 

“I thought my sister was with you,” Padma said to Neville. He shook his head. 

“We got separated back there.” He pointed towards the main hall. Padma glanced at Harry, who nodded. 

“Go.” 

She didn’t wait to be told twice. When she was gone, Harry turned to Neville and Luna.

“You can leave if you want.”

“Harry,” Neville said. “Don’t be a prat.”

“I’m not—”

“No one’s going to leave,” Draco said, stepping forward. “It’s a waste of your breath to keep asking. Now let’s hide this bloke so no one gets him on his feet again.”

Harry looked like he wanted to argue further, but when Neville and Luna bent to help Draco lift the stunned Death Eater and shove him in a nearby closet, Harry joined them.

“Okay,” Draco said, when the Death Eater was safely stowed. “Let’s keep going.”

They made their way deeper into the house. They encountered Death Eaters mainly in pairs and trios, dueling with members of Dumbledore’s Army or in pursuit. Harry, Neville, Luna, and Draco were able to overpower them more often than not without much difficulty. After they had stunned their fifth Death Eater and tied her with magical restraints, Draco began to feel like the battle was tipping in their favor, and he was wondering if they ought to make more of a show of losing when a high, cold voice split the air.

“ _ You would do better to surrender _ .”

Draco stumbled, looking wildly around for the source of the voice. There was no one there. Harry stopped abruptly, and Neville clapped his hands over his ears. The color drained from Luna’s face. When You-Know-Who spoke again, Draco realized his voice was echoing throughout the house.

“ _ You can only evade us for so long. Continue to fight, and you will die. Flee, and I will find you. Surrender now, and the worthy among you will be spared. You have twenty minutes. If I do not find you in the hall by that time, I will not restrain my forces.” _

“That’s awful,” Neville gasped. 

Draco met Harry’s eyes, and saw his own muted triumph mirrored there. This was the opportunity they had been waiting for.

“We’re going to listen to him,” Harry said grimly. “We’ll let him think he’s won, then call in the rest. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be dangerous. If anyone wants to leave—” 

“We’re not going anywhere,” Neville said. “And I’ll punch you if you ask again.”  _ _

“I think we have some extra help,” Luna said. 

“Yes,” Draco said. “Reinforcements.”

But Luna shook her head. She brushed her hand against the wall of the house and murmured something. There was a loud crack and Falla appeared at their side, wielding a steak knife nearly as long as her body.

“Luna is wanting my help?”

“Yes,” Luna said. “Thank you, Falla. I think we’ll be needing the house on our side tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! We are so close to the end it's scary...
> 
> The idea of the heart of the manor was vaguely inspired by The Claiming of Grimmauld Place, an amazing fic by bixgirl1 <3
> 
> Also I realized my chapter divisions don't totally make sense. I'm breaking it up into chapters as I go, so sorry for the uneven lengths/ending at weird moments haha


	33. The Last Horcrux

**Harry**

The walk back through the winding corridors to the main hall felt, to Harry, like a march to his death. 

Neville had used his golden coin, charmed by Hermione so long ago, to communicate their plan to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army. They were all returning to the hall, wands stowed, heads bowed. 

Falla had vanished to the house’s heart where she lay in wait, ready to call the house to arms.

Draco had Hermione’s bag and the sword of Gryffindor. If Voldemort brought Nagini, she would soon die. 

Dumbledore’s Army would converge on the hall, and Voldemort would call back his forces. When the Order arrived, the Death Eaters would be sitting ducks.

Which meant that Harry had to die— it only made sense. He hadn’t mastered the broken soul latched to his own. He had to die, and nobody knew. Nobody except for Draco.

As they walked, Harry drifted to Draco’s side, close enough that their arms brushed. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but he clung to the sensation of Draco’s nearness, the warmth of his arm. He wanted time. He wanted to pause the inexorable march of seconds, draw Draco into a timeless place where they could have even one, singular, precious moment together. It hurt too much to imagine what might happen in that moment, all the shining things he would never have. 

When they reached the hall, he was waiting. Flanked by Death Eaters, he stood before the empty hearth, Nagini curled around his shoulders. Harry’s blood turned to ice. Behind him, he heard a collective murmur from the members of Dumbledore’s Army that had joined them on their way. 

One by one Dumbledore’s Army entered the hall, laying their wands at Voldemort’s feet and kneeling, hands held open in their laps. As more and more came, a vicious smile twisted across Voldemort’s face. Though he knew it was a ruse, Harry’s heart clenched at the sight of them surrendering. Neville, Parvati, Padma, Cho, Seamus, Dean…

_ At least they’re alive _ , he reminded himself. 

Harry hung back, and when Draco moved as if he would enter the hall too, he grabbed Draco’s arm.

“No,” he said. “He’ll kill you.”

Draco looked back at him, his gray eyes steady. “I have to. He knows I’m here.”

Harry knew he was right, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. He stared into Draco’s eyes, pleading with him in a way he couldn’t in words. He drank in the sight of Draco’s face: his delicate lips set in a determined line, the familiar swoop of his cheekbones, the faint lines tracing his forehead. He betrayed no sign of fear, but Harry could see the flutter of his pulse in his neck. He was terrified.

Gently, Draco peeled Harry’s fingers off his arm. He squeezed them, gently, only for an instant, before he turned and entered the hall.

As soon as he did, murmurs and cruel laughs rose up among the Death Eaters. One of them spat on the stone floor. Voldemort’s eyes followed Draco from the door, watching as he knelt and surrendered his wand. Harry pulled on his invisibility cloak, and forced himself not to follow.

“Well, well, well,” Voldemort said, his icy voice slicing straight through Harry. “You have finally learned, Draco. You have learned where the power lies, and now you yield to it.” 

Draco hung his head, blonde hair falling over his eyes. Harry could only see the back of his neck and the taut line of his shoulders. Closing his eyes, Harry murmured the patronus incantation.  _ Please come soon _ , he thought as he sent it away.

Voldemort strolled among Harry’s kneeling classmates, his eyes travelling greedily over their bent heads. 

“It is wise of you to give up a fight you could not win,” he said. “You will be rewarded for your choice. Well…most of you will.”

Harsh laughter broke out among the Death Eaters. Voldemort stopped beside Hermione and dragged his wand over her curls. Harry saw Ron twitch beside her, but thankfully he held back. “Perhaps we will find a place for the filth among you, too. Every empire needs its servants.” 

Another round of laughter that set Harry’s teeth on edge. Voldemort moved on, and this time he stopped beside Cho Chang. He lifted her head with a finger under her chin, then drew her to her feet.

“I know your family,” he said, as Cho trembled in his grip. “Good wizards. Honorable. You will make a fine Death Eater.”

There was a loud crack, and someone appeared in the hall, standing between the Death Eaters and the front doors. He took a clunking step forward, blue eye whizzing in circles as every face in the hall turned to him.

“Let the girl go,” he growled, raising his wand. Before the Death Eaters had time to react, the hall was filled with the sharp sound of apparation. Order Members appeared at every entrance to the hall, blocking them. Cho placed two hands on Voldemort’s chest, and pushed him. He toppled backwards, tripping over Padma and sprawling to the floor.

“Fuck you!” Cho shouted. Her cry broke the tension that had held everyone still; chaos broke out in the hall. The Order sent spells shooting over the heads of Dumbledore’s Army, and knocked half a dozen Death Eaters flat in an instant. Harry saw Tonks tackle the hefty Death Eater who had collected the surrendered wands and hurl them at Harry’s classmates, who dived for them. The Death Eaters returned fire, and Voldemort pushed himself to his feet, drawing Nagini back around his shoulders, incandescent with rage. Harry’s scar throbbed with it, but he pushed his way into the hall, wand raised.

Of the battle, Harry remembered only flashes. There was Fleur, hobbling Greyback with a Slowing Jinx and knocking him out with a vicious slash of her wand. Fred and George tackling a Death Eater together, wands forgotten, and punching his lights out. Cho and Kingsley, side by side, dueling Bellatrix with matching ferocity. 

Invisible, Harry dove into the chaos, repelling the jinxes that flew his way and interfering where he could, stunning a Death Eater who was about to do something far worse to Lavender and tripping Bellatrix as he ran past. But he wasn’t focused on the fight. He had other goals: find Draco and the beaded bag, kill Nagini. And, once that was done, corner Voldemort. 

He darted past Ginny, who was subduing a Death Eater twice her size with a string of well-placed curses, and skidded to a stop when he saw Draco crouching near the hearth, beaded bag in hand, a look of pure glassy hatred on his face. Harry followed his eyes to where Voldemort stood in front of the hearth, casting curses into the melee like a conductor before an orchestra. No one had yet engaged him in battle— they didn’t dare. Harry knew what Draco was planning, and his heart lurched, but he was too far away to stop it. He watched, helpless, as Draco darted from his hiding place, bag held aloft, a shining hilt in his hand— 

— and then he was falling, the bag hitting the flagstones, the sword flying free and skidding in the opposite direction. Harry lunged after it, but Draco cried out, and he stopped. Draco was grappling with the Death Eater who made him fall: Bellatrix, who had evaded Kingsley and Cho. She straddled Draco, who had a grip on her wrist. That was the only thing keeping her from killing him immediately. Harry hesitated, caught between the sword and Draco, and at that moment someone else snatched up the sword. 

Neville let out an almighty roar and charged at Voldemort, sword raised. Nagini slithered off his shoulders, preparing to attack and, at the last moment, Neville diverted his blow. He brought the sword down on Nagini’s head, severing it completely. It rolled away from the hearth, into the chaos of the battle, as her body collapsed to the ground. 

Pain burst in Harry’s head and he fell forward, clutching his scar. His cloak slipped off, but he couldn’t reach for it, couldn’t raise his wand, couldn’t move— the pain obliterated everything but a wave of fury like nothing he had ever felt before. He heard Voldemort’s scream inside and outside of his mind, an ear-splitting echo that made him curl into a ball on the ground, waiting for it to end. 

There were hands on Harry, hauling him to his feet, and a voice, urging him to move. He stumbled, still clutching his head, his vision gone. 

“Come on,” said the voice, ragged and familiar. “Just a little further. Hurry, Harry.” 

They crossed some invisible threshold and the pain eased enough for Harry to open his eyes. It was Draco who held him, a long cut on his cheek, a bruise blossoming at his hairline. They were in the corridor just beyond the hall, and they had stopped running, but no one was following them. Still disoriented, Harry turned back to the hall, where the battle continued to rage. Voldemort had joined it now, hurling curses with deadly accuracy, Bellatrix at his side. 

Beside him, Draco fired a spell back into the hall, catching a Death Eater in the back of the head. The Death Eater turned and aimed a curse at them. Harry ducked— but the spell didn’t reach him. It hit the air between the hall and the corridor and bounced off, ricocheting back to stun its caster. Harry turned to Draco, baffled.

“It’s the house,” Draco said. “It’s protecting us.”

As he spoke, the chandeliers in the hall began to sway back and forth. Moments later they came crashing down. People scattered in every direction, and by some miracle, the chandeliers only crushed Death Eaters. A fire blazed in the hearth, incinerating Nagini’s body.

Harry sagged back against the wall, momentarily safe. His scar still throbbed, and he could feel the connection to Voldemort all the way down to his gut, stirring up the unsettling things he had felt when he probed the soul fragment’s mind on the hill. 

“I have to go back,” he said after a moment, not meeting Draco’s eye.

“You mean to die?”

He could feel Draco’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t look up. If he saw the look on Draco’s face, he would never be able to walk back into that battle, would never be able to stand in front of Voldemort with no intention of fighting back.

“You don’t have to,” Draco said, his voice low and fierce. “There’s still time. We can leave—”

“And let him kill more people? I’m the only thing that stands between him and death.”

“Then try.” Draco stepped closer. “Use legilimency again.”

“There isn’t time.”

“Yes. There is.” 

“Draco—”

“Harry, look at me!” 

Surprised by the heat in Draco’s voice, Harry looked up. He wished he hadn’t. Draco’s face was flushed, his jaw jutting out, his forehead twisted in anguish. His eyes were far too bright. Something in Harry snapped and he reached out, not even sure what his hands were searching for. They caught Draco’s sleeves and then his wrists. 

“Draco.” 

“You have to try,” Draco said again. “I don’t know why you won’t. Do you _want_ to die? So you don't have to face whatever’s left when all this is over? Is that it?"

"No," Harry murmured.

"Maybe you just spent so long being told what your destiny was you can’t imagine anything beyond it. Well, I don't give a fuck.”  He paused, chest heaving, and Harry pulled him closer, just an inch. “Harry,” Draco said. “These people don’t need you to die. They need  _ you _ .” He took a shaky breath. “ _ I  _ need you. I—” The tears fluttered at the edge of his eyelashes, threatening to fall. “You have to know this already, but I am in love with you. It doesn’t matter if you never feel the same, it doesn’t— doesn’t matter. I just need you to not give up right now. I can’t face all of this without you.”

He fell silent, meeting Harry’s eye with a mixture of defiance and hope and fear. Harry pushed away from the wall, dropping Draco’s arms and tangling his hands in the front of his robes. Then he kissed him. 

Draco made a little whimpering sound of surprise, then responded so fiercely he pushed Harry back against the wall. Heat burst through Harry’s body, raging like fiendfyre, obliterating everything but the warmth of Draco’s lips on his. A hungry thing inside him roared its satisfaction and demanded more. He freed his hands and wrapped his arms around Draco’s hips, nearly lifting him off the ground, but still it didn’t feel close enough. He needed Draco close enough that he could never lose him again.

When Harry pulled back to breathe, his cheeks were wet with Draco’s tears, finally shaken loose. Draco chased his lips, his eyes half-closed. Harry pressed their foreheads together and breathed in the smell of sweat and Draco’s lingering cologne. He wanted to apparate Draco away, take him somewhere, anywhere else, and do everything he had barely let himself imagine: tiny, embarrassing things like twine their fingers together and kiss the back of Draco’s neck.

But the sounds of the battle returned behind him, and the heavy weight of reality settled once more on Harry’s shoulders.

“I’ll do it,” he murmured. “I’ll try.”

Draco’s eyes widened, and his hand flew up to cup Harry’s cheek.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said again. “Just...don’t let go, okay?”

Draco nodded fervently, his head still pressed against Harry’s.

Harry let out a shuddering breath, pulling Draco’s body tight against him, and closed his eyes. 

He found he didn’t even need legilimency: as soon as he sought, the fragment’s bloody desires rose once more in his mind. Cold, vicious, violent things floated to the fore of his mind, but he clutched Draco tighter and thrust his way through them.  _ You can’t touch me. I am not yours. You are mine. _

The terror he had glimpsed on the hillside erupted in him. It was deep and cold as the inferi lake, and when Harry stared into it, it threatened to engulf him. He let it lap at his edges, and he felt it at the core of his being: the fear of losing, the fear of becoming nothing, the fear of what came after nothing. It moved in Harry, but it could not touch him. Draco’s hands moved on his back and their warmth was like a patronus.

_ You fear the loneliness you created, the loneliness that is all that remains when your power is stripped away. You fear death because there is no one to love you after.  _

Horrible things flitted across Harry’s mind. He sank his teeth into wounded flesh and tasted blood. He felt magic surge in his body, tearing through his muscles and bones with a sensation between anguish and ecstasy. He stood over the lifeless body of James Potter and smiled at Lily’s screams.

“No,” Harry murmured, recoiling, and he felt lips pressed against his forehead, warm breath against his ear. 

_ You’re lying _ , he thought, pushing past the images with all the strength he had.  _ You’re lying and you’re afraid. You don’t want to die.  _

He could feel the soul’s heartbeat now, racing faster than his own.  _ You don’t want to die— and you don’t have to. You’re not his, you’re mine.  _

Harry felt a sick jolt in his stomach, and the frightening images faded. The terror still sat like a stone in his gut.

“You don’t have to die,” he said, out loud. “Just let him go.”

He saw, now, that the fragment was not just a piece of Voldemort. It had begun that way, and it linked Harry to Voldemort as surely as his blood linked him to his parents. But for sixteen years, that fragment had lived in Harry, and Harry’s own soul had grown in and around it like ivy over a bike left to rust. Voldemort was in Harry, but Harry was in Voldemort. All the fragment had to do was choose.

“Choose me,” he murmured. “Even if I die, you won’t be alone.”

The fragment shivered in Harry. A melting sensation moved through his body like a sigh. As if someone had flicked a switch, the pain in his scar vanished, and his knees gave out. If Draco hadn’t been holding him, he would have collapsed. As it was they sank to the floor together.

Harry opened his eyes, and saw Draco watching him with something like awe.

“I didn’t really think it was going to work,” he said, and it was so unexpected that Harry let out a short bark of laughter. He brushed his hand against Draco’s cheek.

“It’s not over yet,” he said, but he felt as if the weight of the world had lifted from his chest. He took his first full breath in sixteen years.

When Harry re-entered the hall, it was not to die. The battle still raged, though it felt like several years had passed. He strode to the edge of it and cast a Patronus that cantered around the room, drawing attention until the fighting stilled, and all eyes landed on Harry. Voldemort, standing in the middle of it all, held up a hand for his Death Eaters to stand aside.

“That’s right,” Harry said, stepping forward to meet him. “I’m the one you really want. So here I am.” He raised his wand.

Voldemort laughed. “You dare to challenge me, Harry Potter? Without your precious Dumbledore to save you when you fail?”

“I do,” Harry said.

“Very well, then. Your friends will watch you die at last.”

The people all around Harry, who had remained frozen during the exchange, began to move. He held up his hand.

“This is between the two of us,” he said, and everyone fell still. He caught Tonks’ eye in the crowd and held it meaningfully for a moment.  _ Trust me _ .

Someone moved behind Voldemort, shifting just slightly to stand behind him. It was Kingsley, his wand held tightly at his side. Harry’s first impulse was to shake his head, to warn Kingsley off like everyone else. This was Harry’s fight, his destiny. But Draco’s voice spoke suddenly in his mind.  _ Don’t be such a bloody martyr. You’re still facing the most powerful wizard in England. _

Harry caught Kingsley’s eye, and gave him the tiniest of nods. Then he raised his wand, and Voldemort did the same.

Their shouted incantations blurred together, and their spells shot into the air at the same instant, arcing together in a shining beam of red and green. Harry’s wand bent and crackled under the pressure as he struggled to keep his hold. Every eye in the hall was caught on their duel, upturned faces reflecting the shifting colors. 

So no one noticed when Kingsley lifted his wand, and murmured his own incantation. The spell hit Voldemort square in the back and his whole body went rigid. Harry’s wand jerked, and the connection broke. In the utter silence of the hall, the sound of Voldemort’s wand clattering to the flagstones rang like a bell. By contrast, the sound of his body crumpling was insignificant, like a doll or a bag of sand.

Shock held everyone in place— the Order, Dumbledore’s Army, the Death Eaters. Harry let his hand fall to his side, wishing he had a wall to lean against. He felt like he might collapse. A single figure moved in the crowd, pushing past all the other frozen people, until he burst free and threw his arms around Kingsley. It was Remus, and when he kissed Kingsley, wrapping his arms around the hero’s neck, the hall erupted.

Death Eaters tried to flee, but the house wouldn’t let them; every door swung shut, and archways crumbled. The Order began to round them up, stunning them and binding them with magic ropes. Harry turned slowly on the spot, watching the chaos, watching Ginny help an injured Luna limp out of the fray, watching Neville and the Patil twins incapacitate Bellatrix, watching Molly Weasley tell off the twins for taking a Death Eater’s mask as a trophy. 

He turned just in time to see Ron and Hermione running at him before they were on him, throwing their arms around him, shouting incoherent things. Something warm began to inflate inside him, until it was so large it threatened to displace his ribs. 

“You’re okay,” he said. “Thank God.” Hermione began to cry. 

“We did it,” Ron said, sounding dazed. “We did it.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Draco said from behind Harry. He turned, the warm thing inside him expanding fit to burst, and he reached for Draco, but Hermione and Ron got there first. They pulled him into a hug and patted his back and showered him with praise. Draco blushed and accepted it stiffly, but his eyes crinkled with affection. The sight was too much for Harry to bear. He closed the gap between them, pushing Ron and Hermione gently out of the way, and wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist. 

Then he kissed him, enthusiastically, not caring who saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it would be a happy ending!! There are one or two more chapters to wrap everything up, but no more angst from now on. Thank you all so much for reading <3


	34. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter!!!!! I can't tell you how much it means to me that people have actually read this and commented on it and been so sweet. I literally thought no one was going to read this!! Sharing this story with you has been a bright spot in a very weird time. I hope you all like the ending <3
> 
> Also...I may have had a lot of time on my hands recently and I may begin posting a Ginny/Hermione fic that I have been working on. It will not be as long as this one but it is also a multichapter slow burn and will probably also update fairly quickly!

When Draco woke up, Harry Potter was in his arms. Or, more accurately, Harry Potter was curled around his entire body, drooling on his chest. His hair tickled Draco’s chin, and he smelled of acrid sweat and morning breath. Slowly, Draco let his hand drift up Harry’s spine and across the warm expanse of his back. He hesitated for a moment before he began to stroke the soft, half-formed curls on the back of Harry’s neck. The fact that he was allowed to do this overwhelmed him so completely he had to close his eyes for a moment and wait for the dizzying sense of unreality to pass. 

When he opened his eyes again, he shifted slightly to look around the room. Delicate sunlight from the window softened the garish orange walls and fell on the tangle of sleeping forms that occupied the bed and most of the floor space. Neville was sprawled on his back at the foot of the bed, snoring softly. Parvati and Padma were curled above him, back to back. On the trundle bed, a tangled cloud of blonde hair obscured Luna’s face, but Ginny was no longer there.

Draco felt an irrational pang of terror. He eased himself slowly (regretfully) out of Harry’s arms and slipped off the makeshift bed of couch cushions. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, and he limped stiffly out of the room. The Burrow's stairs creaked as he made his way down, past the rooms where the rest of Dumbledore’s Army and the Order slept. Draco realized he had no idea what time it was. He had gone to sleep around noon, and it now seemed to be a different day, but for all he knew three days could have gone by. 

When he reached the kitchen, Ginny was standing by the window that overlooked the garden, her hair greasy and rumpled, wearing a dressing gown that was too short at the arms. She turned when Draco entered, and a small smile crossed her face.

“You look like shit,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes, well, I appear to be wearing your father’s pajamas.” The red and gold flannel shirt was like a tent over his torso, and the pants kept threatening to slide right down to the floor.

Ginny didn’t respond. She was still smiling, her eyes on Draco’s face, and Draco found himself noticing the little lines around her mouth, and the hollow circles under her eyes. 

“What time is it?” Draco asked.

“Eleven in the morning,” Ginny said. “It’s been a day. We slept nearly twenty-four hours.”

“Did everyone?”

Ginny shrugged. “I’m not sure if Tonks has slept yet. Or Kingsley and Remus for that matter. Mum said they were off to reinstate the Ministry.”

Draco was grateful to his bones that he was unimportant enough to rest. 

The stairs creaked down the hall, and a few moments later Luna shuffled into the kitchen, arms wrapped around her middle, wearing a nightgown that only reached her knees. In the clear morning light, she looked like a ghost. Her skin was translucently pale and clung a bit to the bones of her face, and a yellowing bruise bloomed below one knee. 

“You left,” Luna said to Ginny, and Draco knew exactly what she was feeling. From the moment the battle ended, he had felt an insistent need to keep everyone close. This was the first time he had managed to pry himself from Harry’s side, and even now the fact that Harry was out of his sight tugged at him, urging him to return to the bedroom.

“Come here,” Ginny said, setting her mug down on the counter. She held out her arms, and Luna crossed the kitchen, folding herself into them obediently. She tucked her head into Ginny’s neck, and Ginny slowly stroked her hair. Over Luna’s shoulder Ginny met Draco’s eye, smiling faintly, and Draco knew somehow that they were both thinking the same thing. 

_ How did we get here? _

*******

Draco would have thought that after what happened at Bill and Fleur’s, he would have had enough of weddings for a lifetime. But as Delia walked down the aisle, stunning in elaborate white silk robes, beaming up at Tonks, who waited for her in crisp, midnight blue, he found that the lights were forming little stars in his eyes. He tried to dry them discreetly, but Harry nudged him. 

“I saw that.” 

“Shut up.” 

When the ceremony ended, everyone poured out of the manor’s ballroom and into the garden. In the months since Falla had taken over the house, the dry grasses and ragged shrubs had been replaced with brilliant flower beds, little shady benches along a winding cobblestone path, and small trees whose pink blossoms occasionally broke free and floated through the air like balloons. In the center of it all was a circular grassy patch that today had been transformed into a glossy dance floor. The band began to play, and a few couples came out to dance as the sun set behind the hills.

Draco and Harry secured a little table under the low-hanging branches of a willow and were soon joined by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Five glasses of champagne floated in their direction, clinking as they deposited themselves on the table in front of them. Ron snatched his up and took a long sip.

“If Auntie Muriel makes one more comment about how my kids are going to have skinny ankles…”

“What?”

“Apparently, I have skinny ankles,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. She looked stunning in a glittering silver bridesmaid’s dress. “And apparently Ron’s Aunt Muriel thinks we’ll be having children at some point in the near future.”

“Better hurry up,” Fred said, coming up behind them and stealing Ron’s champagne right out of his hands.

“You know what they say,” George added, sidling up beside his twin. “Clock’s a-ticking.”

“Sod off,” Ron said, reaching for his glass and missing. 

“Where’s Luna?” Harry asked Ginny, tucking his own champagne carefully out of the twins’ reach. 

“She cornered Falla by the crepe station. She’s still trying to get her to give that interview.”

“Between us,” Draco said. “I heard she’s in talks with the  _ Prophet. _ They’re offering a book deal.”

“Shit,” Ginny said. “Luna won’t be happy about that.”

“Enough work talk,” Ron said. “Mione, dance?”

“Yes, let’s,” Hermione said, taking Ron’s hand. They moved off to the floor and began a surprisingly adept salsa. 

Harry leaned in closer to Draco. “I think they’ve been taking lessons.”

“Oh yes, they have,” Draco said, a smile unfurling on his face. “I recommended my teacher to them.” He held out his hand, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You might have a dance teacher, but I don’t.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Draco said, pulling Harry out onto the floor. Harry was, indeed, an atrocious dancer. But Draco was too busy laughing to care. He couldn’t take his eyes off Harry’s brilliant smile, the smile he had first glimpsed at the Burrow the night before Bill and Fleur’s wedding— a smile he had seen far more often in recent months. 

It wasn’t as if everything had been easy. There had been the trials, and the day when Narcissa and Lucius were sentenced to Azkaban. Draco had known it was coming, but it had been a blow, and one that Harry could never fully understand. The week that followed was gloomy, full of aborted conversations and tense silences. But then Harry had shown up outside his bedroom door with tea at three in the morning, and refused to leave. They drank the tea in silence, and Harry stroked Draco’s hair until he fell asleep. They woke up tangled in his bed, and Draco felt something shift inside him as he realized that, though Harry would never mourn Lucius and Narcissa’s absence, he cared that Draco was grieving. He cared more than it made any sense for him to care. 

In a few months, Harry and Draco would return to Hogwarts together. They had been living at Grimmauld Place in the meantime, technically in separate bedrooms— but only technically. With the Order no longer headquartered in the house, it felt quite large and drafty. Draco had vague notions of a flat, after he graduated. Something small and bright, and perhaps— as long as he was wishing for things— Harry in the kitchen, frowning at recipes the way he did when he disagreed with them.

But for now, everything was new and tenuous, nothing settled. Even peace was new. It surprised Draco anew sometimes, in the middle of some mundane task, when he remembered he wasn’t being hunted anymore. Nobody knew what came next, and for now, that felt exactly right.

As a blue twilight settled over the wedding and enchanted fairy lights floated out from the bushes, Harry and Draco drifted away from the dance floor, holding hands. They walked the garden path, talking about nothing, laughing. When they reached a willow tree a good distance from the dance floor, Harry pulled Draco around to the other side of the trunk and pressed him against it, kissing him long and deep. Draco ran his hands through Harry’s hair, still astonished that this was something he was allowed to do. 

“Get a room!” someone called in a carrying whisper, and Draco jerked back from Harry to see Ginny peering out from behind a tree a few meters away. Her crop top was lopsided, and her hair distinctly mussed. 

“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?” Luna’s voice said from somewhere in the tree’s shadow. Ginny cackled and disappeared back among the branches.

Draco rolled his eyes, and when he looked back, he found Harry watching him tenderly in a way he rarely did when he knew Draco was looking. Draco’s heart caught in his throat as Harry reached out and brushed his cheek with his fingers. 

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Harry asked.

Draco swallowed. “Are you?”

A crease appeared between Harry’s eyebrows, and his hand fell to his side. “No. Yes. I think.” 

“Do you want to stop talking about it?”

Harry smiled, and leaned in to kiss Draco again. Draco’s worries broke loose and floated away like the blossoms above their heads.

The next morning they woke early and apparated into Hogsmeade right after breakfast. 

“I think Tonks and Delia are going to honeymoon in Scotland,” Harry said as they strolled past Honeydukes. “Do you think they’ll stay in Hogsmeade?”

“Yes,” Draco said drily. “Because they’d choose to spend their romantic weekend in the town where generations of thirteen year olds had their first dreadful kiss.”

“Did you have your first kiss in Hogsmeade?” Harry asked, watching Draco out of the corner of his eye. Draco felt himself blush.

“No, actually. The Yule Ball, if you can believe it.”

Harry laughed. “My first kiss wasn’t in Hogsmeade. It  _ was _ dreadful, though.”

“Cho?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Wasn’t her fault, though. We were both...well, it was a tough time.”

“Yes,” Draco said softly. He wasn’t sure if Harry meant because they had been teenagers, or because of Voldemort, but either way he was right. Harry and Cho had gotten tea together the week before, to catch up. Harry had come home smiling and proclaimed it “nice.” When Draco demanded he elaborate, he had said it was good to talk to her as adults. “Everything made much more sense,” he said. It was true in so many ways.

They nodded to the lone Auror stationed at the Hogwarts gates as they passed, and strolled onto the rolling hills of the castle grounds. The castle loomed in the distance, exactly as it had always been. It was like waking from a dream and finding some element from it sitting resolutely in your bedroom, insisting that it was real.

Normally, there would be students everywhere at this time of year, but the school year had been cut abruptly short after Voldemort’s death. McGonagall had been reinstated as headmistress (Snape stepped aside gratefully) and she declared that the whole year was a wash and would have to be done again.

“Some students won’t come back, will they?” Draco mused aloud. “After the year they had.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “But I always came back, didn’t I? After all the years I had?”

Draco laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

They crested one of the sloping, grassy hills, and came to a stop. On the other side of the hill was the white stone monument that had been erected in Dumbledore’s memory. Around it was a small cluster of people. The fact that no one quite knew what to make of this gathering was clear in their wardrobe choices: Kingsley and Remus were dressed somberly, as for a funeral, while Luna wore her sunshine yellow wedding robes, and Tonks wore a leather jacket and torn jeans. Harry had invited the entirety of both the Order and Dumbledore’s Army but, as Draco had expected, most had decided not to come. There had been a much larger and more public memorial after the battle at Rowle Manor, and few were eager to delve back into the grief that already haunted their steps.

Everyone looked up as Harry and Draco approached, and Draco let go of Harry’s hand, falling back. It was Harry’s gathering. 

“Hey,” Harry said, hands in his pockets. “Er, thanks for coming.” It was clear that, having reached this point, he had no idea what to say. Draco held back, resisting the urge to rescue him from his own awkwardness. “I wanted to...when Voldemort was around, we never really got the chance to— to say goodbye to people. We had to keep going and fighting, no matter what happened. So I just thought it would be nice— well, not nice, but— but a good thing. To do that. Say goodbye. And not just that, but...to thank everyone. Not just the people who died, but everyone who did this. Who helped us win.”

He raked an anxious hand through his hair, and Draco’s hand twitched with the urge to rearrange the stray curls.

“Thank you for arranging this,” Remus said solemnly. He stood next to Kingsley, his cloak open over a suit less shabby than any Draco had seen him wear. In the sunlight, the scars on his face could be mistaken for stray shadows, and he looked young.

“Right,” Harry said. “I guess we should...say something?”

“I can start,” Hermione said. She stepped away from Ron, who’d had his arm around her shoulder, and conjured a perfect red rose with her wand. Laying it beside Dumbeldore’s memorial, she said, “Like you said, it’s important to thank those who are still alive, too. This is to thank Falla, and Dobby. If Dobby hadn’t arranged a network of house elves sympathetic to our cause, none of us would be here today. Falla’s courage saved us.”

A murmur of assent moved through the group, and Hermione stepped back. With a template to follow, others began to come forward. They conjured roses and spoke the names of those they had lost, in the first war or the second, and those they wished to thank. 

“For Cedric,” Cho Chang said, her eyes on Harry. 

“For our fearless leader,” Ginny said, and she handed her rose to Tonks instead of laying it by the white stone. Tonks accepted it with a shimmer in her eyes.

When Remus came forward, he held his rose a long time before he spoke. “For Sirius Black,” he said finally. “There are too many things I could say, but I think he would like a story best. So...” he cleared his throat. “When I was fifteen, a werewolf was murdered in the town where I grew up. It was an intentional act, done because of what he was. I was terrified to go home that summer. I wouldn’t speak a word of it to my friends, but somehow, Sirius knew. A week before term was meant to end, he came charging into the dormitory and told me to put down my book and listen. He had a plan: he would bring me home with him for the summer.” 

Remus was growing animated, gesturing like a professor again. “Of course, he couldn’t do that, because he was at war with his family and they were more prejudiced than anyone. But he assured me that if I let him transfigure me into a guinea pig, he could keep me in a cage in his room and his mother would be none the wiser.” There was a small smattering of laughter. “Of course, I would have to eat carrots and oats all summer, and I wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone or leave my cage. But Sirius insisted it would work.”

Remus paused, contemplating the rose in his hand. “He didn’t say a word about the werewolf murder, or even hint that there was any reason I might not want to go home. He said it like it was all just another lark, a way to stave off boredom away from Hogwarts. But I knew why he was doing it, and he knew I knew. That is what gave me the courage to go home in the end: that I knew there was someone who would go to any lengths to protect me.”

He stopped speaking and, after a moment, laid his rose among the others. Draco noticed that Harry’s shoulders were silently shaking. He drew closer and placed his hand on Harry’s back.

Tonks came next, and dedicated her rose to Regulus. “He deserves to be remembered.” Draco caught her eye, and he felt the ghosts of their shattered family pass between them. 

When Snape stepped forward, Draco felt Harry tense under his hand, but the former potions master laid his own rose without a word. Draco watched him with a prickle of curiosity, wondering whose name he was unable to speak.

Finally, Kingsley took his turn. “For Albus Dumbledore,” he said in his deep voice. “The man without whom there would have been no war, only conquest. I only wish he were here to see the peace he fought for.”

Once more Harry tensed, and Draco squeezed his shoulder gently— a reminder. When Kingsley backed away, Harry stepped forward, conjuring a rose. It came out a bit wilted; this area of transfiguration had never been his specialty.

“For my parents,” Harry said, laying down the rose. 

Silence fell over the assembled people, and when the seconds stretched to minutes, they began to trickle away in ones and twos. Ron squeezed Harry’s shoulder as he went, and Neville patted him on the back. Soon, Harry and Draco were alone. Looking down at the pile of roses by the solemn memorial, Draco couldn’t help but think that Dumbledore would have hated it.

“It’s weird,” Harry said, breaking the weighted silence. “I know more about him now than I ever did when he was alive.”

He was talking about Rita Skeeter’s biography, which had been published astonishingly quickly after the war. Draco had devoured it in a single evening, oddly compelled by the sordid tale. When he finished it he had felt a bit like crying, though he hadn’t been quite sure why.

“You knew who he was to you,” Draco said now. “That’s more important than knowing details about his life.”

“But did I?” Harry asked. “He told me that when he looked in the Mirror of Erised, he saw people giving him socks. Whose deepest desire is socks?”

“Falla,” Draco said. “Also Dobby.” 

Harry ignored the comment. “I wish I knew what he wanted from me,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “He left me all these mysteries. Like this.” He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a snitch. “He left it for me in his will. I have no bloody idea what for.”

Draco took it, gently, from Harry, and turned it over and over, examining it. “Is this a snitch you caught?” he asked.

“Kingsley said it was the snitch from my first game at Hogwarts.”

“Snitches have flesh memory,” Draco said, placing it back in Harry’s palm.

“I know, Hermione said, but—”

“Do you remember your first Quidditch match at Hogwarts?” Draco certainly did. He remembered jeering along with the rest of the crowd while famous Harry Potter doubled over, retching, on the pitch.

Harry’s eyes widened. Slowly, he lifted the snitch to his mouth, and closed his lips around it. When he pulled it away, spidery writing had appeared as if etched into the golden surface. Harry and Draco stared at it together, silent for a long time.

“He did mean for me to die, didn’t he?” Harry said, voice thick. Draco gripped his arm tightly, suddenly seized by the impulse to snatch the snitch away and hurl it at the memorial. He took a deep breath.

“He...probably thought there was no other way.”

Harry nodded, wiping a swift hand over his face. 

“You know,” Draco said. “Dumbledore’s brother said something to me, when I first saw him. That night when he got us in touch with Neville. I don’t think I understood it then, but it...well, it makes more sense now.” 

Harry said nothing, and Draco took it as a sign to keep going.

“He said there was a reason Dumbledore showed me mercy. He said sometimes the best wizards make the worst mistakes. I think...I think he meant Dumbledore showed me mercy because he knew what it was like to need forgiveness.”

Harry turned to look at Draco, his expression unreadable. Draco swallowed, hoping he hadn’t said something wrong. But Harry just knelt and laid the snitch down beside the roses.

“Dumbledore did have a thing about forgiving people,” he said. “You know...Remus told me some things. About my parents. And about Snape.”

“What sort of things?” Draco asked.

“I think I know why Snape created  _ iterum vivere _ .”

“You do?”

“He loved my mother,” Harry said. “She didn’t love him back.”

When Harry’s meaning sank in, Draco grimaced. “That’s…” 

“Makes you see ‘to change a heart’ in a whole new light, doesn’t it?” 

Harry ran a hand over Dumbledore’s name carved in the white marble.

“Things could have gone very differently,” Draco said after a pause. “With the spell. With us.” 

Harry looked at Draco over his shoulder, a sad smile on his face. “I can almost feel that other timeline sometimes. If I hadn’t used that spell, if you’d just fucked off to Malfoy Manor with Snape and never destroyed the horcrux.”

“Me too,” Draco said softly. The thought of it sent a ripple of melancholy through him as it always did, making the world around him seem thin and breakable. Harry turned back to the memorial.

“Dumbledore would have hated these roses,” he said. “I’d change them if I were better with that sort of—”

He broke off when Draco changed them to daffodils with a wave of his wand.

“We should probably go soon,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice light. “I have that meeting with Hermione.”

Harry got slowly to his feet, brushing off his knees, and took Draco by the arm. Leaning in towards Draco’s ear, he spoke softly, though there was no one around to hear.

“I think this was the best possible future,” he said. 

Fighting back a smile, Draco was suddenly struck by the beauty of the Forbidden Forest, bedecked with blossoms and hopeful buds. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed it before.

As they made their way back to they castle gates, they talked idly about the progress Draco and Hermione were making with S.P.E.W., the resistance they had met from government officials, and how they planned to juggle their responsibilities with schoolwork when they all started back at Hogwarts again. Draco could tell Harry’s mind was elsewhere, but he didn’t mind carrying the conversation, letting his words flow over both of them. They had nearly reached the castle gate when Harry stopped abruptly.

“I forgot something,” he said.

“What, back at the memorial?”

“No,” Harry said. “I mean I forgot to leave something.” He reached into an inner pocket of his robe, a different pocket than the one that had held the snitch, and produced a small shiny tube. He held it out for Draco to see.

“Is that—?” Draco snatched it from Harry and examined the label. “ _ Phoenix Fierce _ ? But...this is discontinued.”

Harry looked bemused. “Why does everyone know about this shade of lipstick but me?”

“Why does—?” Draco gaped, unsure how to explain a particularly bizarre chapter of wizarding pop culture to someone who didn’t even know the names of the Weird Sisters. There was the fact that the lipstick was the trademark shade of  _ Witch Weekly _ ’s founder, heiress and diva Margarite Halbersham; its use as a weapon in the play  _ An Evening with a Warlock _ ; and of course the society scandal involving a witch, a merman, and a concealed incendiary device that eventually led to its discontinuation. “It was a bit of a fad in the twenties,” he said finally. “It’s supposed to...increase the pleasure of a kiss. Must be quite valuable now.”

"Should we...try it?"

Draco sputtered. "Harry. It's from the _twenties_. It's almost definitely expired."

Harry shrugged. “Well, you can keep it if you like.” He started walking again, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to produce a rare wizarding antique and casually bestow it upon his boyfriend without explaining how it had come into his possession. Draco shook his head, and tucked the lipstick away in his pocket.

He didn’t think Harry would ever stop baffling him and, if he was being honest, he hoped he never would.


End file.
